


My Becoming

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Jack Crawford, F/F, F/M, Faculty Meetings, Fluff, Fresh Meat Friday, Gen, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal and Will team up, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Murder On Campus, Paperwork, Professor AU, Professor Hannibal, Professor Will, Rating May Change, Sex in later chapters?, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suspense, The Great Red Dragon returns, Will Loves Hannibal, William Blake poetry references, serial killer on the loose, soul bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Newly appointed to the faculty of a small college in Baltimore, Will Graham is adjusting to the onslaught of new people, and new expectations. He had his friends, and his acquaintances, including a certain Doctor in the psychology department, Hannibal Lecter. Will doesn't put much stock into the idea of soulmates, but when a killer comes to campus, targeting those who are unbonded, Will is forced to use his special set of skills to discover the murderer's true identity as he himself becomes a target. A story of fluff, murder, romance, soul-mates, and the terrifying imagination of Will Graham. But what else is new?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this out! Hope you all enjoy it! Hoping for updates at least once a week, though there will be times I update more often, or less often according to schedule! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

“Okay, people, they arrive on campus tomorrow, we have to be ready to go in full force. We don’t want a repeat of last year.” There was a murmur of laughter around the room at the complete disaster opening day had been, when it seemed students were incapable of reading signs, using crosswalks, or even simply walking in straight lines. Every bit of orientation had been delayed, two students had been hit by cars in the parking lots, and half of the physics lab equipment had been stolen before the debacle had ended.

“Everyone has been assigned your interdepartmental partner for welcoming students in, and please stick to the schedule.” Dean Crawford waved a large pack of paper at the front of the room. “Be a friendly face, but make sure they know you are faculty, not other students.” His eyes turned to a group of professors, currently wearing jeans and t-shirts from a theater show they had attended as a group. “Dress appropriately.”

“Shouldn’t be hard for you.” Dr. Chilton’s elbow pushed annoyingly on his arm, and Hannibal forced himself to give him a thin-lipped smile. “Impeccably dressed as always.” He heard Alana snort behind him and gave her a real smile as she rolled her eyes at Chilton. The man was a tool, and he was one to talk since his ill-tailored suit gave the air of someone who liked to think they were important. He and Alana had many laughs at Frederick’s expense, not this ego ever allowed him to see the thinly disguised distaste.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow!” There was a shuffling of chairs, and an air of seriousness under the excitement of starting a new academic term. Dean Crawford wasn’t making jokes when he said he would see them all tomorrow, he was notorious for showing up at faculty stations at the exact moment that work stopped, and Hannibal did not intend to be at the end of rant like the one that Price and Zeller, the lab techs, had been subjected to last year when they told a female freshman that the natatorium was the science building so they could watch her scramble to figure out what was going on.

“Who did you get stuck with this year, Hannibal?” Alana asked sympathetically. Hannibal did tend to have the worst luck when it came to orientation partners. As Head of Psychology, they tried to pair him with newer faculty who might be uncomfortable with questions. He had been paired a few years ago with Biology professor Abel Gideon who had since been fired for his frequent, near-violent outbursts at students who messed up in lab. Then, it had been Freddie Lounds, the newest Journalism teacher who hadn’t stopped asking Hannibal questions the entire time, though he had made it quiet clear he didn’t really want to talk about himself. Then it had been Franklyn Froideveaux in the music department, who, when he had learned Hannibal had used to be a practicing psychiatrist, had talked about his personal issues until he was practically a sobbing heap at Hannibal’s feet. Hannibal had graciously introduced him to Chilton shortly afterwards, and the two had hit it off immediately since Franklyn’s ability to latch on and cling to someone for dear life was the perfect accent to Frederick’s ridiculous ego. Not to mention the matching marks on their wrists. 

“Will Graham.” Hannibal said, and the strangest sensation went across his body. He frowned, not really understanding. He didn’t know any Will Graham, and glanced around the room, though it was mostly cleared out by now, except for the Physics teachers who were pouring over their notes with a kind of concentration Hannibal assumed must be present only in physical science teachers. “Criminal Justice.” He looked over to where the criminal justice group had been sitting, but they were all gone, and he frowned slightly, surprised at the level of disappointment he felt from not seeing Will. “What about you, Alana?”

“Margot Verger, Family and Consumer Sciences.” She said, and Hannibal watched as Alana shuddered slightly.

“You know her?” Hannibal raised his eyebrows. He would consider himself and Alana close friends, since her time as his understudy.

“We found each other.” Hannibal nodded, watching Alana tap at her wrist, knowing what was there. That was the sort of language people used when they found their soulmate, when the small marks on their wrist finally made sense and they found the other half of themselves. It was a recent phenomenon that soulmates were found frequently in close proximity, though many studies had been done that restlessness and the desire to move to certain locations often stemmed from an unconscious desire to find one’s soulmate, and with modern conveniences, it was much easier than it used to be.

“I take it you have told Jack, then.” Hannibal smiled, happy for Alana. She was an incredible woman and an excellent friend. She deserved nice things. There was no expected pang of jealousy from himself; there had been a time they were briefly involved, but like many things between them, it had faded into a sort of quiet contentment for the other’s occasional company. He hoped she could be happy with Margot, who, by all accounts, seemed to be a very nice person as well, though her brother, who was no longer allowed on school grounds, seemed to be quite a menace to society as a whole.

“Our pairing was no accident.” She smirked, but then pressed her hand over mouth as they stepped into the lobby to hide her laughter. Chilton was standing holding Franklyn to his chest, his face narrowed as if contemplating whether the constant attention was worth the indignity of having to hold a sobbing adult at the end of the faculty meeting because Franklyn didn't like the table they had been assigned.

“Have a good evening, Frederick.” Hannibal couldn’t help himself as they passed by, and the reactionary, fake smile he got in return told him and Alana enough.

 

 

“Who’d you get?” Beverly sat across from him, eating a bowl of linguine with far more grace than Will could have mustered. He sighed, opened his folder to scan the documents.

“Why is our mascot the Harrys?” He said, looking up at Beverly. “That doesn’t seem normal.”

“It isn’t. They changed it from the Devils, and let the students decide.” She laughed. “They couldn’t choose between Harry Potter and Harriet Tubman, now its technically both.”

Will looked up at her in almost disbelief. “Damn liberal arts schools.” He muttered. In the summer he had spent with Beverly, he was glad his chronic grumpiness hadn’t been enough o ward Beverly off. She was excellent company, hilarious, and pushed him to reach out at the University when he would rather hole up in his office and prepare lectures six months in advance.

“There’s also a giant print of Harry Chapin in the music building, and a collage of Prince Harry photos in the Campus Center.” Will did laugh that time, remembering his first encounter with the Prince Harry collage and realizing that he would be working at a very strange place indeed. “Who did you get?” She insisted again, reaching across the table. “I got Jimmy and Brian for the fourth time, since Jack thinks I’m the only person on staff capable of controlling them besides himself.”

“Aren’t you dating Brian?”

“Dating implies that we spend time together outside of work and bed, so no.” She said matter-of-fact, “Who. Did. You. Get. Stuck. With. Graham?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will paused, his skin feeling almost strangely electrified for a moment. He shook it off. “Psychology.”

But before he finished the word, Beverly was looking at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk. “Look at you, Graham.”

“What?” He said, frowning at her. He couldn’t remember meeting a Hannibal Lecter when he had been moving in, or during any faculty meetings, though the departments tended to sit together with the exception of those that had their soulmates on staff. Those pairs were easy enough to spot, a woman in a pristine pantsuit sitting with a man with hair in a ponytail down his back and a Grateful Dead shirt on under his sportcoat. Or a person who seemed to have no clue what conversations were happening at the table around them, holding the hand of their partner who was leading the group. All very romantic, Will supposed, but not something that, like most things, had ever meant much to him.

“Oh, you’ll get it when you see Dr. Lecter.”

“Beverly..” He shook his head.

“I’m not saying you have to marry him, but there are other activities consenting adults enjoy doing with each other, Graham.” He blushed furiously. Ever since she had seen him casually looking at one of the Human Health and Development Professors, Matthew Brown, with a little less subtlety than had been his intention, she had made it her personal goal to find him a date, or at least, a ‘breakfast partner’ as Brian had so eloquently put it.

He took a bite of his own ravioli, wishing he knew how to cook this well. “Is Brian your soulmate?” He asked, hoping it wasn’t too personal.

“Haven’t looked at his wrist. Haven’t let him look at mine.” She said. “I’m not ready to settle yet, I just got a job here, and I plan on getting tenure before I get married.” Will nodded, accepting that. He remembered his former girlfriend Molly, who was the first person who had looked at his wrist in the hopes that she might feel the bond that one was supposed to when they found their mate, but it wasn’t so. She had been disappointed to say the least, feeling Will a bit of a pointless investment after that, and the relationship had ended shortly after. She was married to her actual soulmate now, a man named Walter, a fact which Will chose not to let shake him. The relationship had become unhealthy very quickly, with both of them taking petty stabs at the other. It was dangerous to let his thoughts linger on her for too long lest some awful memories be dredged up through the mud.

Will sighed, wishing he was as comfortable with Beverly with the hand that life had dealt him. He knew it could be much worse, at least he was decently intelligent. Not unattractive, maybe even decent looking in the eyes of the handful of people he’d let into his bed. Now he had a good job, and was on his way to making great friends.

“Hannibal’s a nice guy, Will.” Beverly said, finishing her food, making Will realize how little he had eaten. “Even if you don’t try to wine and dine him, he’s good for a conversation. He’s got the whole therapist vibe going on, easy to talk to, super polite.”

“Okay!” Will said finally, over a large bite of spaghetti. “I’m sure he’s great, Beverly. If it makes you happy, I will do my best to talk to him.”

She snorted, taking another drink of water as he looked away, embarrassed.

 

 

The next day showed little improvement for Will Graham, when he was almost immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of people on a small campus. The school had less than 2,000 students, but it seemed that every damn one of them was jockeying for a position on a sidewalk, in a doorway, even on the newly trimmed grass. That mob included Will, who was dismayed to see the number of students that towered over him, the number of students, both male and female, who gave him appraising looks as he tried to squeeze around them. He wondered vaguely how Hannibal Lecter was handling the situation, where he and Will were supposed to be handing out information on mental, physical, and community health near the student center. He supposed he should just be happy it wasn’t raining, and that he could keep his head down without people staring at him.

He jumped at the sounds of loud screaming, relived to see it was simply a sorority woman reuniting with her sister, and he was again glad of his decision to never try and join a fraternity at his old college. While he looked down, a student, wearing a Men’s Lacrosse T-shirt barreled into him, nearly knocking him over.

“Sorry, dude!” The guy said good-naturedly, catching him with an arm as thick as Will’s whole body. “Almost late for lacrosse orientation!” He ran on by Will, who readjusted his glasses without saying anything, but emitting a soft sigh at the thought of a full day of this.

Thankfully, that was his only collision, though he was setting himself up for another one if he didn’t get to the table since he was nearly late for his station. At last, he saw the row of booths, spaced out and swarming with students picking up pens, and coupons, and cups, and pizza being handed out by Beverly and the lab techs with pamphlets about safety protocol. He waved at her, and she pointed down the row to where he knew his table must be. He glanced at the number he had written on the back of his hand, table 13.

He passed the Student News table where he was pretty sure a red-haired professor he had cleverly avoided the day before took a picture of him as he passed. He passed the musical lessons table where a pompous man with a cane was looking exasperatedly at a man with slicked-back curls that was prattling on about something, but Will could tell, from the way the man had his hand on the other’s arm, that they were soulmates. He wondered how they both felt about that, exactly. Table eleven was the opportunity for students, faculty, and staff to sign the new sign that would be displayed in the campus center until this year’s freshman class’ graduation. Will avoided the swarm of students and brightly colored Sharpies, happy that in a moment, he would have a table between himself and the growing throng.

He didn’t look up when he saw the thirteen, instead taking off his messenger bag and setting it behind the desk. “Hi.” He said, extending his unmarked wrist in a handshake as he dug around for hand sanitizer in his bag. “Will Graham, criminal justice.”

“Hannibal Lecter.” Will looked up then, his eyes tracing up a blue plaid pant leg and matching jacket to the sound of a strangely smooth voice. Hannibal’s hands were large, his grip firm on Will’s. But his smile, however slight, seemed genuine. Will never made it to his eyes. He again felt that strange sensation he had felt reading Hannibal’s name, only stronger, more concentrated on Hannibal’s touch. “Psychology.”

“Right.” Will said, pulling his hand away. He used the sanitizer, then immediately realized how that must have looked. “Would you like some? Lot of people in here.” He said almost sheepishly.

“No, thank you. I don’t care for the feeling.” Hannibal said, his voice, as Beverly said, perfectly polite. Will took advantage of the silence to look at the table. Handouts on free counseling, the small student health center, wellness week, and free refrigerator magnets with the National Suicide Hotline, and Rape Crisis Center numbers on them.

“We don’t seem the most popular today.” Will said, noting how some booths seemed much lower on supplies.

“On the contrary,” Hannibal said, pointing back at three already empty boxes behind him, far outpacing every other table Will had seen. “Though I think our booth may be a bit more appealing now.”

It occurred to will that Hannibal was flirting. He fidgeted a bit, his ears burning at the thought. He took a look at Hannibal’s profile as a student came up to them, grabbing things from the table and taking the opportunity to take things from varying stacks. Beverly wasn’t wrong. His skin was a rich tan and olive, his cheekbones more accentuated than Will had ever seen, and when he smiled at the student, Will could see the slight imperfection of his teeth. An endearing quality, for certain, though Will wasn’t sure why. He didn’t think that imperfect teeth ranked anywhere on his minute collection of fetishes, but he also supposed there was always time to learn new things. He would glance away whenever he would feel Hannibal about to look towards him, a skill he had perfected after years of avoiding eye contact. But Hannibal’s eyes were a fascinating color: an almost maroon. He almost wanted to look. Almost. But he wouldn’t give Beverly the satisfaction.

“It seems you have the appeal down, Dr. Lecter.” Will watched students walk by, even some of the faculty and dining hall staff that would look at their table with slight giggles. “I don’t know that you even need me here.”

“Call me Hannibal, Will. And, god forbid we become friendly.” Will had to smile at that, enjoying the heavily accented words, those he wasn’t sure of its origins. Somewhere Eastern European, judging by the lilt and his olive complexion.

"Maybe I don't find you that interesting." He found himself joking back. Out of the corner of Will’s eye, he saw Beverly gesturing to him. He looked at her, his face turning red as she waggled her eyebrows, and he chose instead to ignore her.

 

 

 

Hannibal watched Will Graham as he handed out pamphlets and magnets, offering few words other than the cursory answers to questions. Hannibal almost had to laugh at his complete disregard of one female students attention as she bit her lip while asking him questions, asking him about his class schedule for the semester among other things before she realized he was a lost cause.

Hannibal Lecter had to disagree with her.

“Criminal justice? Any particular reason?”

“I used to be on the force,” Will responded, and Hannibal detected the slightest hint of a Southern drawl on his vowel sounds. “Before I got stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Hannibal almost laughed, but stopped himself. He wasn’t used to anyone being so blunt, but Will didn’t seem to have many reservations.

“Rotator cuff injury. Can’t do field work anymore, did my PhD in criminal psychology, looking at high-functioning sociopaths. They wanted me to come here so I could be available to guest lecture at Quantico.”

Hannibal was impressed, a rare feat, particularly from those he had just met. “I work for the Bureau on occasion as well. Mostly through the Hospital as a consultant.” Hannibal was becoming thoroughly distracted by Will, having to ask a girl twice to repeat her very simple question regarding female health clinics on campus. But he was also thoroughly enjoying himself, much preferable to the disasters he had been forced to deal with since this particular brainchild of Jack Crawford’s had come to fruition.

Finally, though, the tide surged down a bit, and Hannibal found himself intentionally packing the boxes more slowly, trying to get Will to look up at him, just once. He wasn’t sure what he thought he might find there, but it was rapidly becoming an obsession. “What are you teaching this term, if you don’t mind my asking?” Hannibal said, extending the conversation even as other tables came down.

“Introduction to criminology, two case-study courses on Dahmer and the Uni-Bomber, and a Forensics lab.” Hannibal watched him count them off on his fingers, making sure he got them all. Strangely endearing. “You?”

“Senior Seminar, Animal Behavior, the Psychology of Renaissance Art, and a course of Emotional-Behavior Disorders.” If Will found that interesting, he didn’t show it, in fact frowning a bit as he neatly stacked up the rest of the magnets. “Is something wrong, Dr. Graham?”

“Call me Will. And no.” He shook his head, his curls bouncing the slightest amount where no gel fixed them in place. He was wearing glasses, that suited his face and made him look very much like an intellectual. Hannibal could see a glimmer of blue, but wanted Will to look at him. “Just drained, I suppose. I’m not the best with large crowds.” Hannibal nodded. While he enjoyed the company of others, it could be taxing to be surrounded by people one did not know.

“Where are you parked?” He asked, realizing that he had not seen any unfamiliar cars in the staff lot he always parked in.

“I walked here, actually.” Will let out a small laugh. “A mistake, now that I think about it.” He sounded tired.

“I can drive you home, Will. I am parked behind this building.” Will stopped, taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes while Hannibal closed and taped up the box to load on the cart headed their way.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“It is good then, that you did not.” Success, finally, after nearly an hour of waiting, Will looked directly at him. His eyes were beautiful, a clear blue that was highlighted by the plaid button-up shirt he was wearing, and Hannibal smiled, thanking whatever had crossed Jack Crawford’s mind when he had paired them for this particular activity. “I offered it freely.”

“I…” Will seemed uncomfortable, and quickly looked away, leaving Hannibal wondering at the small ache in his chest.

“I insist.” He set the box on the cart one of the janitors pushed by, walked side by side with Will, folding his jacket over one arm. He was confused, but said nothing at the odd behavior by some of the laboratory technicians as the pair walked by, pretending not to notice the red flush of Will’s face.

 

 

That night, in two very different places, two men did very similar things. Hannibal Lecter sat in his pajamas and robe, for once not entirely focused on the book resting open on his leg, or on the mug of decaffeinated coffee warming his fingers. Instead, he was tracing his wrist, where three little symbols sat so plainly on the skin in a non-obtrusive brand. A puppy, with its fur extraordinarily detailed. A pair of glasses, the vein of the center of his wrist pulsing on what would be the bridge of the nose. Glasses that he couldn’t help think now looked familiar. And a stag, colored in solid black, its antlers defined. Somewhere in the world, for the first time in a long time, Hannibal Lecter wondered which of his marks matched his mate’s. If they were looking at their own wrist and wondering the same thing.

Will Graham was standing in a half-buttoned shirt, looking at an old scar for the first time in a long time. He couldn’t see the big one that had gotten him taken out of the field, where it had cut deep into his back. But he could see this, with its thin, white, jagged squiggles on his stomach. A burn from long ago. He pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, seeing the small raised scrapes on his skin from years as an officer, and wondered why he was paying attention to them so much for the first time in what he knew was years. Then his eyes fell to his wrist, to the three little marks there. He had often wondered about them, why they were what they were, but knew he simply had to wait on those things to be cleared up on their own. He pressed his thumb to the teacup and saucer, the mark detailed and ornate. Moved it over to the musical staff, decorated with delicate notes in the center of his wrist, and finally pressed it over the solid black stag, and wondered which one matched his mate’s and if he could ever dare let someone look at his wrist again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the great response to the first chapter! I hope you enjoy this one as well! Please R and R, I love to hear what you have to say!

“Well, if no one has any questions, that finishes us out for the day.” Will Graham stood at the front of the lab, dwarfed in his lab coat that was two sizes too large since he had given his properly fitting one to a girl who had accidentally ordered hers so big on her petite frame that she would have been a hazard. There was an excited shuffling, Will knew it was because they were done half an hour early and not due to his exceptional teaching skills. He pulled his own gloves and goggles off, ignoring the scent of formaldehyde that seemed to have seeped into his skin. At least the three-hour forensics lab was the only class he had today, and he could relax a bit. 

Things were settling, but the working of his Monday, Wednesday, and Friday schedules, with his teaching three oddly spaced out classes, was not doing good things for his eating regimen. Now for example, it was 10:30 in the morning and he was already hungry for what had become his usual lunch. Next semester, he would plan this more effectively.

He made it halfway back to the Social Sciences complex that housed his office before he realized that he had left his smoked fish sandwich on the counter at home in his rush to leave for the 8 a.m. start time for lab. He patted his shirt pocket, feeling for car keys with the hope he could make it home and back before the noon departmental meeting, only to realize that he had left them in the lab. He sighed, wishing he could understand the workings of his own mind as well as he could others, turning around to trudge back to the lab.

He hoped no one had found them, or if they had, that it Beverly, Jimmy, or Brian who had a penchant for being in the lab at odd hours. They might tease him about leaving them in the first place, but at least they wouldn’t steal his car like he knew some of the students might. He swung the door open, pushing through the new surge of students pouring out of the building in order to beat the inevitable rush on the campus dining hall. His small stature and general uncomfortable nature made him an easy target for students staring at phone screens to bump into, and he was grateful to make it down the criminology hallway having not fallen over. He would have to figure how to avoid this situation if he was going to survive. Maybe someone would have some subtle pointers.

He laughed to himself at that, picturing himself asking someone like Frederick Chilton, who had been one of the first people to introduce himself to Will after Jack Crawford had announced his credentials at their weekly staff meeting on Tuesday, the best way to avoid being run over by students. He could picture Frederick giving him a lecture on how important it was to establish himself as an authority figure, or how to best trip other people with the cane he always carried. He felt his face flush, hoping no one had been down here to hear him laughing at his own joke. The last thing he needed was for students or other faculty to think he was weird. He had dealt with that enough of that at his old job on the force.

He fiddled with the lab door, surprised to find it unlocked. “Hello.” He said, tiredly at the back of a student’s head. They whipped around in what Will couldn’t help but feel might have been a guilty fashion. The boy stared at him, his dark eyes seeming to be searching him for something beneath the surface, a cut on his upper lip making him look extremely unhappy at Will’s arrival.

He opened his mouth to speak, unsure what to say at this boy who was yet to leave the lab, even though Will was sure that he wasn’t supposed to be in there. He found the words sticking in his throat, overwhelmed with an odd mix of emotions as he met the boy’s eyes.

“Hello, Frances.” A familiar voice gratefully broke his concentration. “I see you and Dr. Graham have met.”

“Dr. Lecter.” The boy’s voice was deep, and his eyes flickered over to where Hannibal was standing, wearing an eccentric looking black and white striped suit. Will was amazed, really, that anyone could have even begun to make that work. Let alone a man who, he could tell from the goggle marks on his face, had been in a laboratory all morning. “How are you?”

“I’m doing quite well.” He said cheerfully, fixing his eyes on Will with a small smile before going back to Frances. “I’m afraid your extra lab permissions don’t start until next week, Frances.”

“Of course.” The boy sounded embarrassed, and didn’t spare Will another glance as he pushed past him out the door Hannibal had left open. Will took in a deep breath, shuddering slightly at the exhale. There had been times on the force, another reason for his recent retirement, when the emotions of others overwhelmed him. It made him an exceptional profiler, that he knew, but his empathy could easily overwhelm him. One of the many reasons he avoided regular eye contact beyond those individuals he was certain it was safe to see.

“You’ll have to forgive Frances. He is an exceptional student, but has a difficult time understanding social graces.” Hannibal seemed undisturbed by Will’s reaction to Frances, moving further into the lab to rummage through one of the cabinets.

Will let out a short laugh, cut short by his need to suck in more air than he originally thought. “We have something in common then.”

Hannibal turned to look at him with a wry smile, holding what looked like a pair of elongated barbeque tongs between long fingers. “You are quite unlike Frances.” Hannibal assured him, turning back to the cabinet.

“Can I ask what you are doing with those?” Will replied, going up to the desk, relieved to find his keys right where he had left them.

“Animal behavior. We are doing a set of class experiments, I wanted to make sure I had the proper equipment.” Hannibal called, stepping around to the back of the lab and disappearing behind the fumehood. “Alana has a tendency to walk off with it only on the days I need it most.”

Will grinned, wondering at himself for doing it. Beverly had been right, as he was finding she usually was. Hannibal Lecter was easy to talk to. Too easy. Dangerous for someone like Will, who would consider himself an emotional liability on anyone he called a friend.

“Dr. Bloom? She seems….” Will fumbled for the right word, flushing a bit as Hannibal came back around the corner, peering at him, twisting the lid off of a small tub between his long fingers. “Intense.” He finished. He had all of one partial conversation with her, where she had apparently seen him working the table with Hannibal. She had been with another Professor, Margot Verger, who looked at Dr. Bloom like she might as well have been the sun the entire time she was talking to Will. Soulmates for certain. This campus was ripe with them.

Hannibal laughed, an interesting sound to Will, but not an unwelcome one. He smiled again, despite himself, acknowledging that this was the easiest exchange with anyone he’d had since their first. “Alana does nothing with any degree of uncertainty.” He agreed, and looked at the keys in Will’s hand. “Are you going off campus for lunch?”

Will glanced at his watch, his heart dropping. “I left my lunch at home, I don’t have time before the faculty meeting.”

Hannibal nodded. “If you don’t mind sharing my company, I have an extra sandwich in my office that you are welcome to.”

“I feel like you are always stepping in on my behalf, Dr. Lecter.” Maybe Will was imagining it, but the man’s eyes seemed to glitter at the title.

“It makes no sense for you to go hungry, Will.” He said, gathering up his supplies and heading for the door. “Perhaps one day you can return the favor and we might share lunch a second time.”

“Only if you like Cajun food.” Will grumbled, following him out, his growling stomach betraying him as he followed Hannibal to the psychology department.

 

 

 

Hannibal watched as Will Graham profiled his office. Perhaps unconsciously, but profiling it nonetheless. Hannibal smiled, watching him ignore his drink in favor of taking in the spines of the books he kept on his shelf, trying to decipher the titles ranging from English to Latin, Greek to Lithuanian. His eyes trailed over the single plant that Hannibal kept in the window, the fine wood finish and the Japanese-style rug behind his desk, which they sat on opposite sides of, eyes trailing over the expensive mahogany chairs with leather finish that they sat at.

“Would you like some tea?” Hannibal asked, moving by the individual hot water maker on his shelf. “I have many flavors.”

“Not unless its iced and could be served by Paula Dean.” Will said almost absentmindedly, not done with his examination. Hannibal looked at him though, smiling at the thought, watching Will unconsciously touch a thumb to his wrist.

“Is your wrist injured?” He inquired, letting his favorite mug fill with water as he prepared a diffuser with ginger and orange tea, a compliment to his planned lunch entrée.

“What?” Will asked, as if he hadn’t noticed his behavior at all, and Hannibal felt bad in his asking at Will’s red face. “Just an itch.”

“Carrots or celery?” He said, reaching into his silver refrigerator.

“Carrots.” Will answered, and he pulled out the Tupperware he had kept inside, two lunch settings that he had brought in that morning. One was for the next day, born of the fact that he had more than enough chicken salad left over after he had prepared a large batch for his own department meeting that afternoon. He always liked to bring food, and despite Frederick’s comments that he put more time into the occasional desserts than he did in grading papers, he knew it was something they appreciated. It was nice to be appreciated, especially for something he so enjoyed. Thus the rest of the chicken salad was in a large bowl in the fridge, ready to be paired with the homemade sweet pickles and house crackers he had brought. He only hoped that everyone remembered their drinks this month.

“Were you expecting company?” Will asked, looking at the sandwich.

“A happy accident, actually.” Hannibal replied simply, pulling out the two individual vegetable servings, celery for himself, carrots for Will. He watched Will unwrap the sandwich carefully, and smiled again over his own bite of sandwich. “What does my office tell you, Will?”

Some people might have tried to deny that they were discerning Hannibal’s personality from the room around them, but Will did no such thing. He did, however, take a bite of the sandwich Hannibal had handed him, eyes widening with what Hannibal knew was surprised delight at the taste. Hannibal did have to agree that his homemade dressing was the best he had tasted in his forty odd years of life.

“You certainly have a taste for the finer things.” He said, gesturing to the books and the wood. “And much better taste for interior decorating than most people I’ve met.” He took another bite of sandwich, accenting it with a fresh carrot.

“Thank you.” Hannibal said, enjoying the companionable silence. He was glad he didn’t feel forced to speak so much, simply watching Will interact with his environment was its own reward. It would make an interesting portrait, the way Will was right now. Dressed in an inexpensive green plaid shirt, a brown jacket with elbow pads pulled over it, dark corduroy pants hanging just too large on his small frame. All of that with the worn, but not-well-loved dress shoes that seemed distressed from age rather than being used daily as Hannibal’s own were. That was in direct contrast with the rich red of Hannibal’s office walls that he had insisted on painting despite Jack Crawford’s initial obstinence, and the finery of Hannibal’s chairs that his own money from his former practice had financed. He seemed at once out of place, fidgety as Hannibal had determined was simply his nature, but also like he belonged as an outlier amongst the finery surrounding him.

“You’re multi-lingual. You are impressive, but you aren’t trying to impress anyone. At least not that I can see now.” Hannibal raised his eyebrows, surprised that Will had added more. “You don’t like American literature.” He stopped for a moment, finishing swallowing his bite. “What is in this sandwich?”

“I can send you the recipe.” Will nodded, taking another large bite. Hannibal’s smile faltered as he took in Will’s small frame. He certainly didn’t eat enough, and the way he was eating his sandwich, he was practically ravenous. Hannibal wondered how much he cooked for himself.

“I’ll bring crawfish next week.” Will said, with a glance at his watch, finishing his sandwich. “How about next Thursday?”

“I look forward to it.” And Hannibal watched him go, the center of his own wrist itching slightly as Will adjusted his glasses, walking hurriedly towards his department meeting.

 

 

 

The following Monday, there was a small part of Will unsurprised, and a larger part surprisingly excited to find a handwritten recipe for chicken salad, written in near perfect flowing script, in his mailbox. It was only signed with a pair of ornate initials, but had a small post-it note, creased over the top. “Thank you for the excellent company.” He tucked it into his pocket, promising himself he would actually try and make it.

 

 

 

Hannibal had taken to going running in the morning. It was an easy thing to do: park in his usual spot on campus, his suit immaculately pressed in a dressing bag, run and shower before the students began stirring for an early breakfast. It was on occasion that he would meet others running, particularly the women’s track team which he found tended to run both earlier in the morning and later in the evening than the men’s. But most mornings it was him, breathing heavy and covering a lot of ground with his long legs as the world remained slightly damp and mostly dark around him.

This morning was no exception, though he took a different route than his typical, with very few people out there to oppose him as he covered the sidewalk in long strides. He smiled, picturing what some of the other faculty would say if they saw him out here, wearing one of the T-shirts they were given each year to wear to the homecoming football game instead of his usual suit. Athletic shorts (which, to be fair, were somewhat expensive) instead of his usual dress clothes. He knew that in reality they would probably find it very strange, but a part of his also hoped that certain faculty members might take a moment to admire the physique he tried so hard to maintain like the townsperson who had been jogging on the opposite side of the street to him this morning, who had even paid him a little wave.

As his thoughts tended to do as of late, they wondered to his soulmate. He wondered how they were spending their morning. Perhaps still sleeping, or maybe up early to fix breakfast in a little house somewhere. Perhaps opening a library, or finding a book to spend the day with. He glanced down at his own wrist, wishing it could tell him more, but of course it could not. He always kept that wrist covered when he ran, out of courtesy mostly. It was an uncommon, but tragic phenomenon for people driving to see their soulmate on the streets, catch sight of their wrist, and cause an accident from surprise. It had become a habit to him, even as his hope at finding this elusive person had waned as he got older, and he turned himself to much more concrete pursuits.

He remembered when he was seven and the marks first appeared on his wrist. Back when he was a happy child, and explored the castles of his Lithuanian home with abandon, mostly finding himself in the small corners of the library until early morning, reading everything his mind could comprehend. _Precocious._ That’s what the psychiatrist had called him, when his mother wanted to make for certain there was nothing wrong with him. She had been happy with that, and three year Hannibal had decided he would like to be able to use words like that someday.

He had been up late reading, a book in Italian on the Gallic wars, when his wrist had started itching. Scratching didn’t satisfy it, though it wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable sensation. It had continued through the night into the next morning, when he woke and the itching grew stronger. He had spent most of the day rubbing his wrist red, but his mother had smiled at him, ensured him that it was natural and beautiful, but hadn’t fully explained it. Finally, after he was worried he was going to rub a hole through his wrist, the marks had appeared all at once. The little puppy, the glasses, the stag. He had marveled at them then, tracing his fingers over them endlessly, drawing larger representations of them on his tracing paper, expecting any day to meet the person who shared them.

That constant state of expectation had faded, and he had decided that a life of contentment was better than a life of constant disappointment, and he had given up any kind of active looking, though he could remember still tracing the marks through his later unhappy youth, even on occasion paying them attention now, rolling up his sleeves and running a thumb over them as he paused between bits of work.

“Winston!” He heard a familiar voice call. He looked up, surprised not to see a certain Criminal Justice professor, but rather an mottled dog, wagging his tail happily and dragging a leash behind him. He paused as the dog weaved its way between his legs, licking at the hand he extended down towards it.

“Jesus, Winston.” There was Will Graham, in a red flannel shirt and jeans, his glasses askew as he ran after the dog. At seeing Hannibal, he stopped and his face turned bright red, “Sorry, Hannibal, he never does this.”

“It’s quite alright, he has a certain charm to him.” He was surprised at Winston Graham’s behavior, though. He had always considered himself more of a cat, or perhaps even a turtle person, since dogs rather came to him of their own volition. He internally cringed at the thought of being covered in dog hair, though Winston’s coat looked like it was well-brushed and kept trim so as to help keep it contained. Winston pressed against him, wagging his tail as Hannibal continued scratching behind his ears. “He seems well-behaved.”

Winston panted up at Hannibal, who was back to breathing steadily, happy with his ability to recover from his run so quickly. “He usual is.” He picked up Winston’s leash. “I don’t know what got into him this morning, he’s never done this on a walk before."

“Perhaps he encountered something that required investigation.” Will laughed and Hannibal smiled as he often found himself doing in Will’s presence. He hadn’t seen him except in hurried passing since their lunch last week.

“It seems like it was you.” Will gathered the dog leash back in his hands, looping it over his hands. He looked up suddenly, as if remembering something. “I still haven’t repaid you for lunch.” He said sheepishly, his cheeks flushing again, although Winston trotted back over to him, licking at his fingers. Will paid him a glare. It was true, their plans had been interrupted by Will being called to Jack Crawford’s office to discuss how he might want to tune down on the level of gore in his introductory course. He could tell Will was appalled at the thought of lying, though he had been very polite in his apology to email to Hannibal.

“Can I suggest an alternative?” Hannibal said, putting his hands on either side of his waist, knowing he needed to turn around soon if he was going to make it to the showers before the football team finished their morning weight lifting.

Will nodded, adjusting his glasses, holding tight to Winston as he padded in a happy circle between him and Hannibal. To Hannibal’s delight, Will looked up at him, his eyes having lingered on Hannibal’s legs for just a moment longer than would have been innocent.

“Join me for dinner.” He said, and Will’s eyes widened the slightest. “This weekend, unless you have other plans.”

“I…” Hannibal full expected a rejection, of some nervous sort. Instead, Will simply pushed back on his glasses, and cleared his throat. “That would be nice, actually. Anywhere specific?”

“Why don’t I contact you later?” Will dug in his jeans pocket for a moment, pulling out a phone Hannibal was unsurprised seemed just as dated as his own. He handed it to Hannibal who put in his contact information and sent himself a brief message. “I look forward to it then.”

With a nervous smile from Will, he turned around to head back to campus, his mind soaring and his body begging to follow suit. He heard Winston the dog bark behind him, and didn’t quite notice when his own wrist began to itch, rubbing it slightly and perhaps mistaking it for sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those here for murder and things of that nature, I promise we get there soon!


	3. Chapter 3

Will stood next to his car, hoping that the outfit he had chosen would be nice enough for whatever restaurant Hannibal had selected. He was in his nicest peacoat, warding off the early fall chill in the air around them, a button-up, dress slacks. Even his hated dress shoes, which he had to admit were necessary for the outfit. He watched cars pass by, almost hoping that Hannibal might be early to their arranged meeting space, but since he had been nearly a half hour early, he really couldn’t blame the man for simply being punctual.

He had spent most of that extra time assuring Beverly that this was not a date. After all, what kind of date started with a park and meet behind the Visual Arts Center? None that he could fathom. But she was insistent, even sending him the little kiss emoji at the end of her texts. He had decided he would stop talking to her until the date was over, but that left him staring at the outstretched of the baseball field as the darkening sun set on every shorter days and he could practically smell October around the corner.

It was a beautiful view, one that accompanied a gorgeous campus that he knew he should take more time to appreciate. But typically, it was teeming with students, and he wasn’t much parlay for that. Today, he had walked with one across campus, a freshman girl named Abigail who was in his introductory course. She had noticed his general nervousness when they would pass large groups, but hadn’t mentioned it, simply stepping in a way as to give him more space. She seemed genuinely interested in the material, and had set up two follow-up office appointments with Will before disappearing to her math class.

He could feel himself starting to build his foundations here. Three weeks in, and he had students he knew would someday work for the FBI. Others who would be lucky to make it through all four years of school, but whom were equally deserving of his help. Their third weekly staff meeting had been the easiest yet, and he found many of the faculty were eager to speak with him about his experiences in law enforcement.

And now, he was going to dinner with a colleague. Not a date, as he had insisted, though, as he watched a black Bentley pull up into a space, a well-dressed Hannibal Lecter climbing out of it, he thought that there might be worse things it could be called.

“Hello, Will.” He called, not wearing his usual suit. In fact, he was dressed a good deal more like Will, in a long coat, a button up shirt covered by a long-sleeved maroon sweater, dress pants, dress shoes. Will realized, the moment after he discovered he was staring, that Hannibal had likely dressed like that on purpose. “Would you like to drive, or shall I?”

He looked into his car, realizing now that he had neglected to vacuum the last remnants of dog hair from the seats after Buster’s latest incident. He frowned, feelings his ears betray him as they, followed by the rest of his face, turned a deep red. “If you don’t mind….” He said, highly doubting that Hannibal would have dog hair anywhere in his car.

“Of course not.” A flash of teeth in a wry smile, and Will watched as Hannibal opened the passenger door for him before going around to his own. He settled in, feeling that the seats were already warmed, sparing a glance at his own car, wondering how he had managed to have the good luck to have unknowingly parked three feet from the dumpster. He pressed a hand to his forehead, unsure sometimes, of how he functioned as a normal person.

 

 

 

Hannibal was intrigued. Will looked rather dashing in his peacoat, and Hannibal appreciated the obvious effort he had put in to dress nicely. He had had initial delusions of grandeur of impressing Will by whisking him away on a forty minute drive to the heart of Baltimore to eat at the nicest restaurant Hannibal could imagine. It had taken him only a few minutes of embarrassed planning to realize that while he would have enjoyed that immensely, Will most likely would not have at all, and he didn’t want to hurt his future prospects.

“Does the cassette player work?” Will asked, and Hannibal nodded, fiddling with a few knobs before the sounds of the Four Seasons filled the car.

“The Four Seasons?” Will said, watching the roads fly past them. “Appropriate for this time of year.”

“The world comes to its close in fall. A season of death.” Hannibal agreed, and to his surprise (and internal gratitude) Will did not look at him as though he had said something strange. Hannibal knew he tended to be a bit verbose, and a bit heavy on certain subjects. He also knew that casually mentioning death was probably not the ideal position for a first date.

“I’ve always liked fall, though a Christmas in Dixie tends to feel a bit mild compared to what we get here. It’s the same kind of feeling though: warm cider, falling leaves. I’ve always liked pumpkins.”

“I am sure it is beautiful.” Hannibal said, never having spent much time in the American south. Though he had attended several conferences in Orlando, Florida, and for the most part found it unbearably hot and somewhat of a tourist trap.

“What is your home like? Your original home, I mean?” He could hear the slight tremor in Will’s words, trying to continue the conversation when he usually would have been silent. Hannibal smiled, knowing Will was looking at him, at the thought that he must genuinely be interested in his answer.

“Lithuania is an interesting place. My childhood home always seemed full of life on Christmas; my mother made sure we decorated, and there were usually several inches if not more than a foot of snow.” He could see it all very clearly in his mind, the wrought iron gates that guarded the estate covered in inches of fluff that he liked to construct things from. His first Christmas with Mischa, who had seemed so fragile and small, but his mother had swaddled her and given her to Hannibal to hold while she made them all hot chocolate. Her tiny face, catching the glittering lights from the tree.

Will said nothing else about it, and Hannibal didn’t press it, instead thinking of everything that had changed since then. All of his Christmas morning spent alone, with the tinsel he sometimes decorated and the gifts he had been given from friends spread on the table. It had never bothered him, and only in contrast to his distant past could he feel a small ache at the thought.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere.” Hannibal said, and Will did look at him strangely this time. “Only because we are here.” He pulled into the parking lot of a nice steakhouse and seafood restaurant, teeming with customers who carried out bags of food in Styrofoam cartons. Will took it all in for a single second before climbing out of the car with easy grace. Hannibal followed, letting Will lead them to where he had marked a reservation for “Lecter” the first time Will had joined him for lunch in his office.

 

 

 

“Tell me more about yourself, Will, I feel as though I haven’t gotten the chance to ask.” With their food ordered, Will’s glass of beer and Hannibal’s thin-stemmed wine glass filled to the brim, they were left to speak with few interruptions.

“Not much to tell, really.” Will said, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes to instead fidget with his fork. Hannibal frowned slightly. “I’m a single, white male, late thirties, not bonded to my soulmate.” He stopped, as if thinking of more things to rattle off.

“You aren’t a suspect, Will. I meant perhaps more personal things.” Though Hannibal couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Will’s wrist where the man’s soulmarks would be, covered by a heavy watch that wasn’t unlike Hannibal’s own and shared the same purpose. To his surprise, Will grinned, laughing a bit at what seemed to be his own expense.

“Let’s see…I like dogs. You met Winston.” His eyes met Hannibal’s, who felt like he was absorbing parts of Will through his gaze. “I have others…I didn’t want to take my car because of Buster’s…shedding problem.” He said sheepishly, his cheeks blushing red.

“How many do you have?” Hannibal asked, ignoring the sudden urge to scratch at his wrist, too fascinated with Will.

“I tend to collect strays, so seven in total, though one of them in nearing fifteen years old.” He admitted, clearly watching for Hannibal to react in some kind of way. Though Hannibal could scarcely imagine himself being surrounded by so many canines, the thought of Will doing so suited the man nicely. “What about you?”

Hannibal pondered for a moment, wishing he knew what to say. He could take the Frederick Chilton approach and laundry list his accomplishments. But since he didn’t wish to alienate Will, nor waste either of their time, he decided against it. “I enjoy playing the harpsicord. I find the richness of sound far more rewarding than that of a piano.” He watched Will’s contemplative nod. “Your turn, Dr. Graham.”

“Are we playing a game, Dr. Lecter?” He asked, and Hannibal just smiled over the rim of his wine glass. “Before I was a police officer, I used to fix boat motors for a living.”

“I consider the culinary arts to be a favorite pastime of mine.”

“I could tell from the chicken sandwich. My favorite hobby is fly fishing, I make all of my own flies.”

“That takes a great deal of skill, I would say. My favorite poet is Dante Aligheri, and the original Italian version of _Paradiso_ is my personal favorite of his.”

Their game of passing information back and forth was unfortunately interrupted by the arrival of their food. Steak and salmon for Will, Steak and shrimp for Hannibal, all delicately garnished with small leaves that Hannibal picked carefully from his plate. He enjoyed the presentation, though he thought that the meal hardly called for such a large garnish.

Will cut his steak, chewing a few bites slowly, seeming to watch Hannibal interact with his food. Hannibal listened to the quiet hum of the restaurant, picturing Will fly fishing in the river that ran behind Hannibal’s own home, himself standing on the banks, watching his bright eyes shine with a smile.

“My friend Beverly thinks this is a date.” Will said finally.

“Pardon?” Hannibal looked up, at Will, who was again blushing it what had to be the most endearing display of nervousness Hannibal had yet seen. For his part, Hannibal had almost choked on the thin stalk of asparagus on the end of this fork, but had enough composure to contain himself.

“I spent the better part of the evening prior to coming here telling her that it wasn’t.” Will laughed at looked down at his food, leaning forward. Hannibal waited, still not sure if he should be insulted or if he had read Will completely wrong and was setting himself up for some kind of supreme embarrassment here at the steakhouse. “She refused to believe me. Now I see why.”

Hannibal waited, chewing, feel that small clawing of hope in his chest. “Because this…”

“…is a date?” Hannibal offered.

Will nodded, laughing again, but looking up at Hannibal. “The nicest one I’ve been on in a very long time.”

Hannibal smiled, excited at the happiness he felt sitting across from this strange curly-haired man, so unlike himself. The conversation began again, much easier in coming now that Will had pulled that weight form his chest. He listened to every word about fishing and boats and Louisiana. He heard every anecdote about dogs and the vet and the Baltimore police force. About LSU and the groups Will hadn’t joined. About graduate school and beer club that he had. He heard everything and delighted in the lightness of his heart as he absorbed it into his mind.

 

 

 

Will resisted the urge to reach out and put his hand on Hannibal’s as they pulled back into the parking lot where Will’s car waited and it fell to the gear shift. To his surprise, Hannibal climbed out of the car with him. “I had a lovely evening, Will.” He said, coming around the back of the car, close enough, but not crowding him which he greatly appreciated.

“I had a great time.” Will responded honestly, feeling his old nervousness creep in as he stood facing Hannibal alone in the semi-darkness of campus.

“If you don’t mind, Will, there is something I’ve been dying to do for the last half hour.” Will said nothing, and Hannibal stepped closer. Will could practically feel his pulse hammering, his lips tingling and his entire body electrified as he expected a kiss to land on his lips, his mind practically paralyzed with the thought. Instead, Hannibal’s long fingers, smelling oddly of cinnamon, adjust Will’s glasses, wiping off an offending fleck. “There.” He said, and then looked down as if realizing how close together they were.

Will could feel the heat radiating between them, cutting through the cool night as easy as a knife. Will saw his maroon eyes linger for a moment on Will’s lips, then back up as If he thought better of it. He leaned forward instead, pressing his lips to Hannibal’s cupping one hand at the back of the man’s head. If Hannibal was surprised, he didn’t let it discourage him, wrapping an arm around Will to press them together more closely. He tasted like wine and the cream-based, after-dinner mint they had been given; but Will relished in it, not realizing until this moment how long it had been since a proper kiss. Before everything was ruined when their souls weren’t compatible, when they could still enjoy each other without having to worry about trivial things such as that.

How long they stood there, he couldn’t say, but when he pulled back, his entire body felt as though it were alive for the first time. He felt compelled to grab Hannibal by the lapels of his nice jacket and press him back against the car, some instinct inside of him burning for more contact. But the old fears that lingered in Will Graham’s mind took hold, and instead he took a step back, wringing his hands along his wrists nervously.

“Will…” Hannibal said softly, his dark eyes glittering.

“I’ll call you.” Will said, stepping back to his car, unable to help the small smile as he did, one that mirrored Hannibal’s own. He stood, watching Hannibal adjust his watch as he climbed back in the Bentley, a strange grin plastered on his serious face. He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, thinking to himself about what a strange night it had been.

 

 

 

Hannibal sat alone in the Bentley, already missing Will who had waited on him to pull away in his car before getting into his own. The car felt empty, but Hannibal was far from complaining about the events of the evening. His original intention had been to kiss Will, but he had decided in the sweeping motion to his lips that perhaps Will would not be ready. He had never been happier being wrong.

He knew he was probably far too happy that Will had said he would call. Too excited about everything involving the man. He was not expecting however, when he got to the outskirts of the campus community, for Will to call so soon. His mind ran all sorts of silly thoughts, or Will wanting him to come back. It was indeed Will, and he answered it in one smooth flip.

“Will?” He asked.

“Hannibal…” His smile faltered at the gasping on the end of the phone. “Please…come back. I---I need help. Something’s happened.” He heard the staggered breathing, the panic in Will’s voice, and his heart lurched. He whipped the car smoothly in a circle, finding himself driving familiar streets at twice the usual speed, his wrist burning with an unnatural pain that he couldn’t be bothered to notice.

 

 

 

Will Graham wasn’t conscious of much of what happened after his discovery of the girl’s body. He had his head pressed to the steering wheel, his thoughts filled with Hannibal and only Hannibal and what kind of trajectory his usually simple life might be on now when he had seen the dark shape on the walk behind the dumpster.

That was when it blurred, and he was thrown into the whirlwind of his own emotions. He could remember grasping for something familiar, for Hannibal who by some miracle had shown up at the scene as if magically called there by Will’s need, his arms strong and steady around Will as he moved him away from the body. He had flashes in his mind of the blood, almost black in the moonlight on his fingers as Hannibal searched desperately for a pulse, called the police. He could remember the flashing lights, being wrapped in a blanket by some worried officer, Hannibal’s gaze on him as he sat alone, Dean Crawford arriving and 7yelling at one of the police officers after some assumption was made about the girl. But nothing was connected, there were so many blanks in his mind that he got dizzy just thinking about it.

Like now, sitting on his couch with no memory of having made it home, warm hands cleaning the girl’s blood from his fingers, speaking in a soothing tone as they scrubbed between his fingers. Assurances that it wasn’t his fault, that the girl’s family now knew, that the police were investigating. But he was trapped in his own mind again, or rather, in the mind of the person who had killed her.

He could see himself shattering the glass shards of her make-up mirror she had opened, thinking it was a weapon in her panic to ward him off. He could see her blood splatter onto the sidewalk as the gun went off, could feel her windpipe being crushed under his fingers. Could feel the satisfaction of seeing her laying there. When he came out of that horrific fantasy, he was covered in sweat, blinking at a clock that read 6:45 a.m. and realizing that he had been asleep. He stood up, his shirt sticking to his skin uncomfortably, but not as much as his belt was biting into his stomach since he was still dressed from the night before.

He grabbed a new shirt, stumbling downstairs, needing coffee. To his surprise, no dogs stormed him on the stairwell. “Winston? Buster?” He called, and saw a head pop up over the back of the couch, a tongue sticking out and lolling at him. He walked over. “Son-of-a-bitch!” He couldn’t stop the southern drawl that flavored his words.

Hannibal Lecter was on the couch, legs bent in a way that let his long body fit on the loveseat, three of Will’s dogs providing him with the blanket he seemingly hadn’t been able to find. “Good morning, Will.” Hannibal shifted, looking down when he realized that the dogs were on him, and frowned.

“Hannibal?” Will asked, surprised but not unhappy to see him, he was mostly too tired to process what was happening. Hannibal stood, the dogs climbing off of him with excited barks at the prospect of being fed, attempting to brush the hair from his jacket in a futile gesture. He still looked incredibly well put together, an amazing feat for a man who had slept on a loveseat barely big enough for two people to sit on surrounded by dogs he was unfamiliar with. He did however, look exhausted.

“I’ll go then. I didn’t want to simply leave you alone after everything that happened.”

“Right.” Will said, and the night that lingered in his dreams came back to him. “Did you bring me home?”

“Yes.” Hannibal unconsciously reached down to scratch Winston behind the ears. “You were not suited to drive, so I figured this might be easier. I could explain things to you if you were not able to remember this morning.” Hannibal blinked away sleep from his eyes, reaching up a hand to rub at his face. “I will see myself out.”

He turned around, and Will still wasn’t recovered from the strangeness. He nearly made it to the door before Will stopped him. “Wait.” Hannibal stopped, his hand outstretched for the door. “Thank you.” He breathed out, as if it were the most difficult thing in the world. Hannibal gave him a gentle smile, and he cringed at the thought that another person might see him as fragile. “I’ll call you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Will Graham was tired. Tired of faculty meetings, tired of grief counselors, tired of Beverly texting him every six minutes if he wasn’t responding. Tired of Abigail Hobbs not asking him difficult questions that he knew she was thinking during office hours. Tired of Jack Crawford calling him into his office every couple of days to make sure he was coping well. Tired of emails. Tired of the fear that now perpetuated campus with every step he took.

The police had gotten nowhere. To them, it seemed the act of an estranged killer, one with no connection to the girl, maybe a failed sexual assault. Will knew otherwise. This was the work of a a different kind of killer, one who’s motives he had been yet to place. It had caught him fully off guard. He wasn’t ready for the body or the blood or the throwing back into the mind of a person he never wanted to be.

There were too many pieces he didn’t know. Not only had Dean Crawford seen fit to keep him as far away from any mention of this as possible, including exempting him from all of the mandatory faculty meetings they had had every day since, but the police seemed to be of the same opinion despite Will’s background in criminal justice. It made him want to cry with frustration, sitting in his home or in his office or standing at the front of a lecture hall when it seemed the entire campus was running circles around him. Except for one person.

Hannibal Lecter had rapidly become his steadying figure. He was the only person who wasn’t treating him like either a potentially dangerous person, or like a piece of fine china. It wasn’t anything specific Hannibal was doing, which was simply speaking to Will as he had, occasionally inquiring as to his wellbeing, but not pressing him to open up about his experience. Will at first couldn't tell if it was because Hannibal had not wanted to discuss what he had also experienced, or if it was simply because he understood Will's need for a break. He had decided in the man's favor, a rarity for Will, and now assumed the latter. 

“You will have to teach me how to make this, Will. I do not often work with Cajun cuisine.” Will had finally come through on his promise, and after receiving a week of sympathy lunches from other staff members, he had brought a Nesco Roaster of Lowcountry Boil to Hannibal’s office, smiling at the man’s gently excited face when he had opened the door to find Will there with lunch.

“I’m sure you could do better.” Will said, blushing when he realized his mouth was half-full and he covered it quickly, waiting to speak. What had been a sentence was interrupted by his phone buzzing. Beverly, making sure he had eaten today, and instead turned into a loud sigh.

“If only people took as much interest in finding the poor woman’s killer as they did your mental health.” Hannibal said, so nonchalantly that Will had to laugh, though in truth there was very little funny about this.

“You don’t seem concerned with my mental well-being.” Will said, reaching for more potatoes. Next time, he would need to use more Old Bay seasoning.

“That is not entirely true. However, you are a grown man, if you need help, I trust you to get it.” Will thought that perhaps that wasn’t Hannibal’s best idea, but it was a simple enough phrase that at the moment meant the world to him. Trust. An abstract concept, perhaps, but tangible enough to a man who had never had the genuine faith of others. His father, who partially blamed him for his mother’s disappearance; other police officers who thought him too weak to be much use in the field. Now there was a man, carefully picking apart a boiled crawfish with a set of metal forks, who hardly knew him and yet had witnessed the aftermath of a murder with him, had seen the effects of his very obvious disorder, and still trusted him to care for himself.

“Have people been pestering you to go see a psychiatrist?” Will asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly. After Dean Crawford had found them both at the crime scene, he had been short in collecting a list of psychiatrists that were available and discreet for Will and mailing them to him in hardcopy to apparently keep on his desk in case he decided to have another breakdown. 

“They don’t have to,” Hannibal said, smiling as the shell finally cracked apart under his ministrations. “I already have regular appoints with Dr. du Maurier.”

Will wasn’t exactly surprised, it was common for psychiatrists to have psychiatrists, but Hannibal hadn’t been practicing for years from what he had gathered. As if reading his mind, Hannibal continued softly. “I find our conversations both enlightening and a personal relief to me. Bedelia is an excellent psychiatrist, though more than a bit unorthodox.”

“Meaning what exactly?” For a moment, Will tried to picture Hannibal as a practicing psychiatrist. It wasn’t that difficult, with his suits and soothing voice. Picturing Hannibal discussing his personal issues with another psychiatrist, however, was not. He seemed to…distant to be able to disclose parts of himself. Which Will understood, of course, but then again, he understood everyone.

Hannibal laughed to himself before looking up at Will, watching his eyes. “We shared a glass of wine at the end of my last appointment. More than a glass, actually, not something I would consider typical of doctor-patient behavior. I think Bedelia enjoys our conversations as much I do. they are formal, but also friendly.”

Will nodded, not sure what else to say for a while. Hannibal, however, did not seem concerned with his silence, and continued eating his food at his own slow pace, Will noticing that he took care to place things in delicate arrangements that made his plate aesthetically pleasing as well as easy to eat. Will’s own plate was a mess of shells and potato skins, and he almost snorted out loud at the thought. With Hannibal’s door shut, it almost felt like the rest of the world did not exist outside and he was finally safe for a moment.

“Do you have plans for the evening?” Will asked, And Hannibal looked up again in surprised delight, giving the tiniest facial gesture for Will to continue. “I could use the company.”

“I could cook us dinner.” Hannibal said, gesturing to the dish below him, now completely ready for consumption.

“I’ll bring the drinks.” Will agreed, finishing his meal with a new lightness. What had happened hadn’t changed, but in his mind there was always that thought that he would be wrong this time. That his gift was presenting itself as the curse it actually was and he was finally losing his mind, although that would mean the world would have one less serial killer, so the benefits were debatable. His sanity was certainly worth less than the lives that were lost.

But now, he didn’t have to think about that. He could think of his own feelings, before all of this had happened, before he had found Hannibal oddly angled on his couch, before dreams of murder had woken him six days in a row in a horrible sweat, before any of this had happened, and how it had felt for him to kiss Hannibal deeply in space next to his car.

 

 

 

There were few aspects of Will Graham’s life that he could compare to a movie, let alone a romance film. This had to be one of them, when he showed up holding a bottle of the nicest whiskey Buddy’s Liquor store sold in his plainclothes and a dark green fishing jacket and felt underdressed simply standing in Hannibal’s home. He had to admit, there was something almost adorable to Hannibal at the moment, wearing two oven-mitts and a perfectly white, tied apron over his dress clothes. He was yet to see the point of the apron, since it was entirely spotless, and as he watched Hannibal chop the finer pieces of a salad, there wasn’t a bit of it that landed out of place.

Despite that however, he felt as though he was almost trapped in some false reality. Hannibal’s home was beautiful, decorated in a similar fashion to his office, though there seemed to be a difference in decorative tastes. Somethings more personal about the pieces of art that contained bits of a language Will was unfamiliar with, but assumed was Lithuanian. The deep reds and chocolate of the furniture looked stiff and fancy, but Hannibal assured him they were incredibly comfortable. The only thing that seemed slightly out of place was an odd-looking couch that looked as though it was recently reupholstered. “From my childhood home. It is one of the few artifacts I chose to bring with me.”

But his living room was nothing on his kitchen. It looked like something Will had seen on Food network when he woke up at three in the morning and Alton Brown was the only decent thing on. Will hadn’t known that actual people owned kitchens like these, with chrome finish everywhere, marble countertops that almost glittered in the light of the beautiful chandelier that hung over a kitchen island that was furnished with the largest array of knives, all sheathed perfectly into blocks, and kitchen gadgets that Will had ever seen. Hannibal had turned one to him, offering him the chance to sous chef, but Will, somewhat afraid he would injure himself with whatever contraption Hannibal had turned towards him, and mostly concerned that he would ruin whatever amazing dish the man was preparing, declined the offer.

Instead, he had followed specific instructions, rummaging through several cabinets to find a wine cork. But mostly, he watched Hannibal work, looking over his head at the portrayal of Leta and the Swan, thinking it might have been odd, but since Hannibal had willingly slept on his couch with Winston, Buster, and Twix as his blankets, he could certainly overlook little eccentricities in Hannibal’s taste in art.

“What are we having?” He asked, sipping at the whiskey he had brought, though he noticed Hannibal’s glass remained untouched.

“A surprise.” Hannibal smiled back, pulling another pan from the oven.

“A surprise that smells a surprising amount like Fried Chicken.” Hannibal looked falsely insulted.

“Braised, Will. I would never fry a chicken breast, it is nearly impossible to keep the moisture in.” Will almost snorted into his drink, thinking of all the terrible $5 boxes of KFC he had eaten in his college days. And then again during his move to Baltimore. And on occasion now when he couldn't stomach another five dollar footlong. Hannibal, he was sure, would be appalled by that. He wondered if the man had ever eaten a Big Mac; something in him told him not to ask.

“You don’t have to drink that whiskey if you don’t want it.” Will added after a moment, “I wasn’t sure what you like to drink, so I guessed.”

“I enjoy a nice glass of whiskey on occasion, though I prefer a good wine. A sweeter, Sauvignon Blanc, is my choice for the chicken,” Will nodded, knowing very little about the refined palette of wine drinking other than dark reds went with dark meats. “That doesn’t mean I won’t indulge a bit later.” Will raised his eyebrows, smiling to himself. Hannibal couldn’t have missed the suggestion behind his words, though his face remained remarkably impassive.

The last of the salad toppings were tossed into a bowl, and suddenly Hannibal was spinning the bowl like what Will pictured an Italian chef must do with pizza, though the metal stayed firmly balanced on his fingers. “If you will wait for me in the dining room, Will, I will join you in a moment.” Hannibal said, in a way that Will wondered what exactly, if anything, Hannibal had planned. He shrugged, pushing through a set of wooden doors into a breathtaking table setting. He looked down the easily 10-person table to see the adjoined table settings at the end, one at the head for Hannibal, and an equally nice one on the right for Will.

He walked down, taking a seat in one of the delicately carved-back chairs and sat, waiting as his mouth watered. He couldn’t help his mind wandering back to what had been haunting him. He had seen it in the face of his students, who weren’t as sad as they were afraid. They shuffled quickly past the memorial area that had been set up, where people dropped off purchases from the campus bookstore around a picture of the girl. Jack Crawford wouldn’t say it, but the girl hadn’t been bonded to a soulmate, and that had made things infinitely easier. It wasn’t uncommon for a person to die shortly after losing their soulmate if the pair were bonded, and Will couldn’t imagine trying to coax another student into dealing with the girl’s death if it felt like they were losing such an integral part of themselves.

But he was pulled out of his dark thoughts by the arrival of Hannibal through the door, his apron taken off and undoubtedly folded neatly somewhere. He was hover, wearing the oven mitts that Will couldn’t help but smile at. For a man like Hannibal, so well cut and tailored, he hoped it would always be amusing to see him in overly large, printed oven mitts with little chefs on the back of them. He set a plate down in front of Will, masterfully plated chicken, drizzled lightly with some sort of unidentifiable sauce, a swirled mound of potatoes, and a small collection of cooked vegetables on the side.

Then came a salad, ornately plated and dressed in its own little bowl, “I’ll be back in a moment.” Hannibal said, walking hurriedly away after setting down his own plates. Will hoped it wasn’t because of his silence. He wasn’t upset by the selection, simply stunned. He waited though, until Hannibal returned, and looked up at him. “This looks incredible.” He admitted, watching as Hannibal poured them each a glass of chilled wine. Hannibal practically beamed, taking his seat, close enough to Will that Will could feel the heat radiating from his skin only inches away.

 

 

 

Hannibal wasn’t quite sure how they had ended up here, but he was far from complaining. He thought at first that he might have been a bit rash in his judgement, or a bit lightheaded from the wine and half-glass of whiskey that he had had ended up drinking during the long conversation that followed dinner. But he knew that he would be lying, and instead, he was caught up in Will, and only Will. It had been a long time, perhaps since his brief series of trysts with Alana Bloom, that Hannibal had felt anything like this sort of connection with another person. Even then, that was nothing of this almost immediate closeness he had developed with Will.

The psychiatrist part of him told him that it was partially their shared trauma, that in a way he and Will were codependent on each other as they dealt with the aftermath. But this didn’t feel like it was beyond his control; he wanted Will, not only the comfort he offered. And Will seemed to be more than willing to oblige him.

In fact, now Will was hurriedly, unbutton his shirt, straddling him down into the misshapen couch that had been refurbished so many times he could hardly call it the same couch he had once shared with his mother, father, and young sister before he had lost them. He pushed those thoughts out of his head as Will’s tongue slid across his bottom lip, seeking and gaining entrance into his mouth where it slid against his own in one of the most arousing feelings Hannibal could ever recall.

He could feel Will’s hands on his stomach, tracing over him. He wasn’t one of the defined men that were becoming increasingly common in movies and magazines, that much he knew. But he liked to think he was physically fit, keeping his body lean at the very least, from a regular regimen of running each morning and swimming at least three evenings a week. Will, ghosting his lips along Hannibal’s jaw, seemed inclined to enjoy Hannibal’s body. He traced his hands along his sides, slipping warm fingers under the edge of his unbuttoned shirt to feel at the warm skin there.

For his part, Hannibal did his best to be an active participant, very much enjoying Will’s ministrations, as he undid the belt that was biting into his stomach and ran his hands over Will’s clothed body, gripping hard at his hips, moving single fingers over small patches of bare skin. But something was bothering him, though his body was responding very enthusiastically to Will, a fact that the man seemed to notice with a slightly nervous laugh and a smirk.

Hannibal’s wrist was burning, not the slight itch that he was used to, or even the slight twinges. It felt as alive, if not more alive than the rest of the his body, covered by the same heavy watch he had worn in each encounter with Will thus far. There was a large part of his body, hovering at the edge of his carefully constructed control, that told him to tear the watch from his wrist, see if Will was actually his soulmate in this world. To do the same to Will’s, still hidden from his sight, and in the aftermath of that, to consummate their bond in Hannibal’s bed. On Hannibal’s couch. On every surface they possibly could. But something held him back, the same thing that was egging him on.

Will, though he refused to think of him as fragile, clearly was not ready for that. Nor was Hannibal certain that Will was his soulmate, and to open them both up to that kind of disappointment was not only fruitless but potentially hurtful. There was always some degree of uncertainty when it came to these things. But he would be lying if he had said to himself that since their kiss, and his subsequent reactions to Will needing help, that he hadn’t stayed up late reading about the peculiar behaviors of soulmates. About the physical symptoms of being around your unbonded soulmate, a newer species phenomenon since ancient humans had simply bonded as soon as they felt those symptoms. So instead, Hannibal held back, instead running his hands through Will’s dark curls as he leaned fully over him, pressing his thin body to Hannibal’s as they kissed again.

It could have been minutes of bliss, or hours of perfection, but eventually, they stopped, slightly out of breath. Hannibal knew his arousal was clear, and that Will could feel it pressed to him in such close proximity. “I should go.” Will said, moving to stand, his face flushed from their activities perhaps, but also maybe embarrassment at the awkwardness at splitting up the situation. “I...I had a great time.” He added as Hannibal sat up. 

“Would you like to stay here tonight, Will?” Hannibal said, choosing not to regret the suggestion as soon as it came from his mouth.

“I...” He looked caught between very much wanting to do just that, perhaps with a bit more than what they had just been doing, and wanting to hide from Hannibal and never be seen again.

“I only mean it is late, Will.” He said, feeling his own, unfamiliar blush creep into his reddened ears, grateful for his naturally darker skin tone. “I would hate for you to get in an accident on my account.”

“Right.” Will said, and, as if realizing how late it actually was. He stopped for a another moment, seeming incredibly torn, not that Hannibal could blame him.

“This isn’t an obligation, Will. Though I have gotten many compliments on both my hospitality and my guest room.” He said, insinuating all the right things. Will visibly relaxed. 

“If you’re sure you’re okay with it.”

“I will get your sleep things.” Will nodded, and Hannibal made his way to the guest room, trying to hide his elation that Will would be staying, even if only in one of his guest rooms. He slept easy that night, no longer plagued by the dreams that he had been having as of late, of the girl’s body, of the faceless, seemingly soulless person behind the atrocities. He had to stop himself from going physically down the hall, to make sure Will was alright when he could hear the man give small shouts in the night. He had to tell himself that Will did not want or need his help, that dreams would pass in time, but those things did little to quell the ache in his heart and the still present burn of his wrist.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

He could feel himself screaming until it felt like his lungs would burst, but no sound would come from him. He tried to yell, tell Hannibal, who was smiling at him to run as the figure behind him charged. But there was nothing, the man didn’t move, reaching out a hand to Will, perhaps gesturing for him to come closer to him.

And then his face faltered. And in it was the same expression he had seen on the nameless rabble of victims that he had been confronted with, in his time n the force and the research. The figure was on him, unidentifiable, but terrifying in its anonymity. He tried to yell again as Hannibal staggered, turned to face his assailant, and Will saw the unmistakeable stab of a knife into the man’s abdomen. He watched as the dark stain in the back of Hannibal’s immaculately pressed dress shirt starts to bloom like a horrible flower. Watches him falter, shift to his knees and then to the ground, the front of him practically covered in his own blood, decorated with identical wounds that match the holes in his shirt.

The figure turns to Will, saying something, but there is still no noise. Will can feel his throat grow hoarse, can see Hannibal as he turns his face to him, blood starting to run at the corner of his lips. When Will looks up again, the lead holding his feet still finally disappearing, the figure is gone. He runs to Hannibal, falls to his knees in the blood pooling beneath Hannibal's body, pressing his hands against his wounds, desperate to stop the flow of blood. Hannibal reaches, he thinks for him, but actually for his wrist, undoing the heavy watch there, or at least trying to. He never makes it.

As Will watches, Hannibal's eyes turn to his with all the effort Hannibal has left, his heavy breathing slowing down in the horrible silence. Will watches the light leave them, the long fingers that grasp his sleeve relax as the ability to control them leaves him, and as Will looks down, his own hands are now covered in blood.

But almost worse, then is a horrible burning. He stares, gasping in silent pain, but he can feel his control slipping as his hands reach for not his own wrist and the pain, but for Hannibal’s, his watch still held in place there. He fumbles, the blood making his fingers slick, but when it finally comes undone, the horrific, sickening feeling that comes to him blackens his vision and finally, finally, he can hear his scream.

Will Graham sits straight up in bed, drenched in sweat. He looks down, amazed to find his hands clean of blood. He checks his phone, Hannibal’s goodnight text is still there. There is no missed call from Jack Crawford, or Beverly who he is planning to see later today. Nothing. It is only his mind again, playing horrible tricks on him in that space between deep sleep and waking.

“Sorry, Winston.” He says, as he shifts the bed to stumble to the shower. The dog barely moves, it’s more than an hour before Will usually gets up in the morning, but he can’t stomach going back to sleep, mostly for fear of what he might see there. He hasn’t slept well since he and Hannibal found the first girl. There had been a boy, only two days before, the morning after he had woken on Hannibal’s couch. Found in the same fashion, with the same injuries. Now two memorials sat on the sidewalks of the college, and every day Will passed them alone, his mind whirring with horrible images of what the world really was and what they were all pretending it wasn’t.

He had not given the police force a choice this time: he was immersed fully in the investigation. He had carefully reconstructed the crime scene, but there were pieces missing. A motive. A selection. How these things were happening, how the victims were being chosen. Nothing was clear to him.

The water washed away memories and physical evidence of the dream, the sweat leaving his body in thick rivulets of water that pooled on the floor of the shower. Every time he opened his eyes, he expected to see the walls painted with blood, or Hannibal’s face staring back at him blankly. But there was only white tile, and his own reflection in the pocket sized shaving mirror he had suctioned to the shower. He almost took it down after scaring himself twice with his own face.

By the time he made it to classes, he felt as though an entire day had passed. He was choosing to pointedly ignore one of the main points of his dream which came to his mind with perfect clarity. He couldn’t stop himself, from walking by the classroom he knew Hannibal taught his early morning Animal Behavior Class in, doing his best to ignore the almost tide of relief at seeing the back of one of Hannibal’s familiar plaid suits with no bloodstain on the back of it.

“Dr. Lecter’s really something.” A voice said, and Will jolted back from the door. It was a student, now looking at him strangely as he avoided his eyes. “Wait, aren’t you the guy working on those murder cases?”

“Will Graham.” He extended a hand, which the student took. He was an older student, wearing a lab coat and glasses, probably going to work in one of the labs.

“Randall Tier.” He said, lowering his hand and looking back into the classroom. “I remember taking this class, set me on the path I am now.” Will waited, figuring the man might speak for himself. “Veterinary School. Taking a year to work here and do research.”

Will nodded, checking his watch in the least subtle fashion he could manage. “He’s an odd character, Dr. Lecter. But, an excellent professor.” Randall Tier looked at Will again. “Have a good day, Dr. Graham. I’m afraid I have to go.” Will waited until the man was gone, mainly because he was worried that if he moved as well, that Randall would offer to walk with him. Will needed solitude at the moment.

 

 

Hannibal was worried: about the general welfare of the student body since there was clearly a killer on the loose, but more singularly about Will Graham. The man seemed to be sleeping even worse than Hannibal himself was, with the dark circles under his eyes getting even more pronounced after the death of the boy they had found on campus and Will had offered his experience as an investigator. Hannibal wasn’t sure that was the best idea, in fact, he knew that it wasn’t a good idea at all. But he had no say in what Will did, despite how worried he was.

He watched Will now, hesitating before walking over to him, seeing him talking to another of their colleagues, Beverly Katz, whom Hannibal renowned for her exceptional lab work. Will seemed to even be laughing a bit, and he was loathe to interrupt. “You should go over to him if you want.” A breathier voice came to him, a woman.

He turned to see Margot Verger standing next to him, sipping at a cup of coffee from the campus café. The first thing he noticed was that her wrist was exposed, with all three of her soulmarks lined up neatly. His own wrist suddenly felt weighted down and sweaty with the covering of his watch.

“You seem like you want to be over there. You may as well go.” She added, watching Hannibal pointedly. Hannibal could see why she and Alana Bloom were compatible. This woman seemed to have very little filter and need little social provocation, while he knew Alana tended to, on occasion, get caught up in her surroundings; Margot’s ability to call her out, and Alana’s ability to temper those same suggestions were probably why the world had put them together.

“I do not wish to upset him.” Hannibal said.

“I think you’ll be perfectly fine,” Margot said, turning slightly as Alana began to walk towards them, smiling faintly. “I don’t think he’d be upset if you showed up.” She added, and looked pointedly at Will, who was actually glancing towards the pair of them. Hannibal nodded, waving in acknowledgement to Alana who smiled back and wound one arm around Margot’s. Hannibal walked over to Will, taking the seat across from Beverly.

“Dr. Lecter.” She said, with a faint smile. It was becoming increasingly difficult, Hannibal had realized as the faculty continued to meet frequently, for even the happiest among them to smile. Some had soulmates, it made it easier. Others had only friends and colleagues, maybe significant others. From the looks he had seen on one of the curly-haired lab technicians, it was clear he and Beverley were involved. He wondered if they were soulmates.

“Professor Katz.” He responded, nodding at her.

“Hi, Hannibal.” Hannibal wasn’t sure if Will consciously leaned towards him as he spoke, or if it was some base instinct. Either way, he was grateful for the closeness, and he couldn’t help the small smile as Beverly clearly noticed the gesture and lifted her eyebrows in slight surprise. “We were talking about motive.”

“They think it’s a student.” Beverly added, now the corners of her lips turned upward as Will turned fully to Hannibal to address him, finally meeting his eyes with an ease that Hannibal couldn’t help but swell with pride at. Beverly’s announcement was disturbing but not unexpected. Who better to prey on students than other students? Still, Hannibal frowned at the knowledge.

“Have you discerned a motive, Will?” Hannibal could feel Beverly watching them closely, feeling Will reach out for his arm. Something was wrong with him, but now was not the time to ask.

“The fact that the victims aren’t bonded is important.” He answered, his eyes seeming to be searching Hannibal’s face.

“Are they seeking a soulmate? Getting angry when their victims are not that person?” Hannibal asked, giving Will’s hand a gentle squeeze as the man half-turned again, closing his eyes.

“No.” Will said, shaking his head. “There’s something else there, but I don’t know what.” He stepped away, seemingly angry with himself. Hannibal was left standing with Beverly who was smiling at him very suspiciously in his opinion.

“Can I help you with something, Professor Katz?” Hannibal asked, automatically defensive.

“I’m just happy Will is taking my advice.” She said. “Will’s a great guy.” Hannibal couldn’t help but smile to himself, thinking of the night Will spent at his home. A loud night, one that he knew was not Will’s best night of sleep. But before that, when they had enjoyed had a near-perfect dinner together and then a vigorous session on Hannibal’s couch, he couldn’t remember feeling more at ease. Now, with everything changing again, and Will now caught in the middle of it, Hannibal wished for that same feeling again.

“He is an extraordinary man.” Hannibal agreed, moving to walk beside him.

 

 

Hannibal was cooking again, and this time Will determined to help him in his kitchen. A long day had sapped both of them of strength, and even though Beverly had offered to bring over both Brian and take-out over to Will’s home, he had declined in favor of Hannibal’s company for the evening. They were having some sort of French cuisine Will hadn’t bothered to try and repeat after Hannibal, despite the fact that he considered himself relatively fluent.

Hannibal was cooking the meat, tossing around pieces of what Will thought might be either pork or veal, occasionally tossing in bits of alcohol that would catch fire in great spurts of flame. Hannibal was wearing his apron again, but his hair was flopping a bit off of his forehead as Will watched him work. He smiled to himself at, thoroughly distracted by his cooking partner.

Mostly, he was just happy that the images from his dream were fading. That Hannibal was real, and was made of strong, solid flesh that Will could pull close to him and feel the warmth radiating off of when the panic would set in. That Hannibal’s maroon colored eyes stayed alight with laughter as he watched Will mangle the start of their relatively simple dessert, cutting mismatched squares of chocolate and over-beating the cream until he could see it was all Hannibal could do not to throw him out of the kitchen and cook by himself. He breathed deeper when Hannibal was closer to him, determined to look in his eyes to make sure he wasn’t fulling himself. He had never been able to do that, his life had been an array of avoiding people’s eyes in an attempt to avoid their emotions. Hannibal was closed enough that Will could breathe. He could finally relax and the only slight twinges he could feel from Hannibal did nothing to upset him.

In fact, he knew Hannibal was doing in on purpose to try and  appreciated the gesture. It had been almost thrilling when, because of what he was doing to Hannibal’s body, he had been able to so strongly feel the waves of arousal coming from the man. Waves that fueled his own, giving him a hunger that he didn’t think he had ever quite felt before, even with partners that were far less restrictive in their emotional workings.

He turned to Hannibal, watched him start to plate the small round disks that were perfectly braised from the pan. Not paying enough attention, it seemed, to his own work when he felt the sharp sting as Hannibal’s razor thin knife slid into his skin.

Some sort of strangled sound came from his throat as he tried to refrain from cursing. Hannibal looked up in alarm as Will practically ran to the sink to avoid getting blood both in the food or on Hannibal’s pristine counter. He turned on the water, washing the line of blood that started running down his hand. He had cut a long slice all the way down his finger to his wrist, where blood popped up under the edge of his watch. He could feel his face getting red with embarrassment, knowing Hannibal was watching. He heard the man rifling through the cabinet behind him, hopefully to keep preparing dinner and leave Will to his embarrassment.

 But then a pair of hands were holding his arm up, moving his own out of the way to examine the cut. “Allow me, Will.” He said, and will realized he had extracted a small first-aid kit from one of the many cabinets. With practiced fingers, Hannibal traced along the cut as far as he could, checking the depth of the incision.

“Do this before, Dr. Lecter?” He watched Hannibal smirk just a bit, watching a bead of sweat catch in Hannibal's hairline from cooking with fire.

“I was a practicing surgeon before I was a psychiatrist and professor.” He explained simply, letting go of Will’s hand for long enough to rummage through the box. Will was caught between wanting to roll his eyes and stare in stupefied amazement. Was there anything he couldn’t do? A surgeon, a psychiatrist, a professor. And here was Will, a failed former cop with an empathy disorder who had injured himself slicing through partially frozen cream cheese.

“I need you to take off your watch, Will.” Hannibal was holding some tags to pull the skin back together and disinfectant pads. Will blinked at him, knowing full well that Hannibal knew the implications of doing that. What if he looked and they weren’t soulmates? What if he looked and they were? Both, to Will, were equally terrifying, and he wasn’t sure which was more likely at the present moment.

“I…” But at Hannibal’s reassuring smile, he swallowed back fears and undid the band. He passed his thumb over the small black lines, knowing that even if Hannibal was his soulmate, he wouldn’t be bonded to him until he saw Hannibal’s mark. Perhaps that would be cruel of him, for Hannibal to be bonded so fiercely to him, but not to return the feelings and urges that might threaten to overwhelm the man. But he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t ready, not with everything else going on.

He pressed his thumb to the marks, seeing that Hannibal was right and the mark extended well down his wrist, even the thick threads of the band partially cut. He waited, nearly holding his breath as Hannibal unwrapped the small alcohol pads, bracing himself for the sting. Hannibal still hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t looked at his wrist since he had placed the watch on the sink. Will waited, feeling his anxiety starting to get the better of him.

Hannibal’s hand was on him again, and he felt what must have been an electric current run over his skin, down his hand where Hannibal’s hands were clasped gently on either side of his arm. The alcohol burned along his cut, but was almost washed away by the gentle warm that seemed to be spreading from Hannibal’s touch as he worked to heal him. Perhaps it was simply Will’s imagination, but there was a brief moment of hesitation on Hannibal’s part as he turned his wrist over to get at the last of the wound.

Will held his breath, but as he sat, he slowly released it. Hannibal did nothing other than clean at the wound, perhaps purposefully not grazing his fingers against the teacup near his fingers.

 

 

Hannibal was frozen, his fingers moving only from muscle memory instead of some sort of actual cognition. He was trying his hardest not to react, not to listen to his body that told him to press his lips to Will’s wrist, then his lips, and to forget the incredible dinner he had prepared for them to share and kiss and touch and satisfy the now burning fire that seemed to have settled in his skin. He had started to doubt that he would find his soulmate, that he would be one of the few unlucky ones who spent their lives simply wondering what their mate might be doing in some forgotten corner of the world.

But despite Hannibal’s Lecter’s previous misfortunes, despite all of the horrific things he had endured as child, long before the life he lived now, it seemed that fate had finally smiled at him. He could feel the bond, purely chemical he knew, but so strong it was almost tangible. It hurt though, the ache in his chest when he realized that Will was not ready for this kind of bond yet. He couldn’t look at him, or the man would know. No, he would wait until Will was ready. He hadn’t built his self-control to this point to ruin his and Will’s chance at happiness together. No, he would wait.

He kept his eyes down, avoiding Will’s gaze, feeling his pulse rush as Hannibal avoided touching against the gentle marks on his skin. Interesting to him. A musical staff and he couldn’t help the faint smile that crossed his lips at the thought of Will pressed to his back as he played the harpsichord for them. A teacup, complete with the small, ornate markings of his mother’s old china set at their home in Lithuania. How he had loved it, the delicate roses etched in gold along the sides, playing tea party with himself, or with Mischa who was far more interested in gumming at the cookies than he had prepared on the matching plates for them. And then, perhaps most magnificently, a silhouette of a stag, the very same mark on his own wrist that remained covered. He had never understood its presence, but to see it now, etched into Will’s exposed skin, came with an incredible rush of endorphins.

But rather than do that, to do everything, he cleaned the last bit of blood from Will’s skin. Each drop was like acid on his own fingers, and her burned with the urge to protect Will, to heal him from the inside out. To hold him to his own body until all of the fear of retribution and whatever else held Will Graham back from being himself was gone and he could be open as he was with Hannibal. Where he could free of the horrors Hannibal had heard him yelling about in his sleep and seen behind his eyes in his waking.

“All done.” He said instead, and still couldn’t look Will in the eyes as he moved to the put the box away.

 

 

Will startled awake to what, for the first time, wasn’t one of his bad dreams. Instead, it was the buzzing of his phone on his nightstand. Dean Crawford. And unread goodnight text from Hannibal. A  group of texts from Beverly. A voicemail form the Police Department. His dream must have been more distracting that he realized, and he ached with tiredness.

“Hello?” He said, rubbing at his eyes, ignoring Winston’s gripe of protest as he shifted.

“Dr. Graham.” Jack Crawford’s voice was heavy. “We need you to come in as fast as you can. There’s been another set of attacks. They’ve left the murder scene intact.” He said. He sounded almost apologetic, he was hiding something.

“Attacks?” Will said, reaching for his glasses. It was about 5:30 in the morning, not too late, but barely enough to have any light outside this early in the morning.

“One unsuccessful.” He said after a long moment of silence. “One with serious injuries, but no fatality. We’re not sure why they stopped.” There was pause, enough for Will to take a full breath, starting to wake up fully. “Do you need someone to come and pick you up?”

“No. I’ll be there soon.” And he closed the phone, not bothering to read Beverly’s messages. He had enough to think about, and it was definitely something that could wait until after this.

He was surprised Hannibal had sent a goodnight text as he had taken to doing. After Hannibal’s lack of a reaction yesterday to the marks on his wrist, he had been almost angry with the man. How could he remain so calm? How could he send Will texts to wish him goodnight? How could he still make him dinner and talk with him about anything? How could he still do those things if they weren’t soulmates? At least before, there had been a question about whether or not they were soulmates. From Hannibal’s lack of anything happening, it was clear that they weren’t. Will didn’t need to see his marks to figure that out. Even Hannibal’s kiss had felt different after they shared the chocolate and cream cheese bites after the meal. Almost possessive, as if making up for the fact they weren’t meant to be.

But, as his father had always said, now there were bigger fish to fry than his love life. He stepped out of the door into the cold, breezy October air, ignoring cold feel of fake leather as he started his drive to campus.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far! Please R and R, I appreciate you all!

“Will!” He heard Beverly’s yell as soon as he stepped from his car. She was dressed haphazardly, clearly having not had time to shower or get ready when the call had come through. She ran over to Will from where she had been by Jack, and looped her arms tightly around him. “Thank god.” She breathed, and she could feel her grip tighten on his shoulders. “I was so worried.”

“Why?” Will said, but he could tell that the feelings were certainly genuine. As for the cause for it, that was still very unclear to him. Everyone who had been attacked thus far had been students, and Will had been safely at home when this had happened.

“Crawford didn’t tell you?” Beverly took a step back, and Will cringed at the slight of horror and awkwardness in her gaze. “Come on.” She said, and turned away from him. The scene in front of Will was a mess of activity, and he could see where the body of what had to be the deceased victim stuck out from behind a bush. Then, farther along, with blood sprayed around it and pooled at its center, was the chalk outline of another body.

“Dr. Graham.” Jack was hovering by the paramedics who were working over the body of the person who been attacked, stabilizing them for the trip to the hospital. But Will had frozen in place, the next part of Jack’s sentence lost to his ears as he focused his entire world on a familiar pair of long legs, dressed for his morning run.

“Hannibal!” He yelled, closing the distance between him and the gurney in a single bound, practically pushing one of the paramedics out of the way. “Hannibal!” He tried again, and this time, the man’s head turned slowly, still wet with blood on his temples. He had a mask over his face, but Will could see him trying to speak, his lips moving slowly. Will looked down his body, his shirt torn, fingers pressed over the thin fabric to staunch the flow of blood, the paramedic holding it there.  “Hannibal.” He whispered, a wave of his own guilt flooding him when he remembered his harsh thoughts from that morning.

His eyes met Hannibal’s again, and he was amazed at the rush of relief he felt from the man. He walked along side the gurney “He stopped attacking you.” Hannibal gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Why?” Will said, and Hannibal lifted his hand that wasn’t pressed to his side in a gesture to his face, trying to show him again trying to speak to Will.

“Hey!” But Will ignored the paramedic as he pulled it off, watching Hannibal closely.

“Bonded.” He said, lifting his wrist again, covered by the watch he always wore that was stained with blood. Hannibal was bonded. He was safe, at least to an extent, as a result.

Will felt his blood running cold. He pressed the mask back over Hannibal’s face, watching the man take a deep breath as his eyes flickered closed. He stepped out of the way as they loaded him inside, seeing for the first-time evidence of another wound on his back that was pulsing blood into the cover of the gurney and over the sides. The killer had intended to kill him, fully. Will could only be relieved that Hannibal had been spared due to the now evidence that he and Will were not truly meant to be together. Hannibal was bonded. That explained his complete lack of a reaction to Will the night before who would have been lying if he said he hadn’t imagined what it would have been like if they had been destined for each other.

But at least now, he could better understand this killer. He waited on the ambulance to leave, when it was him and the police and the coroner there with Beverly who was watching him like he might go on some wild rampage at any second, and Brian, who had just showed and wrapped a coat around Beverly.

“I need privacy.” Will said slowly, turning to them. “I have an idea about the killer, but I need to be alone with the scene for a few minutes, please.”

“We’ll be right over here.” Beverly said, before any of the police who had opened their mouths to protest could say a word against the idea. He closed his eyes, waiting and waiting and waiting until he couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. When he opened them, he could feel his own mind leave him in a rush, replaced with the mind of the person behind these acts.

 

 

 

_The girl was there first, out early to do a few morning laps around campus. He had seen her before, in classes. She had no soulmate, unbonded and content with that._

_Oblivious to him, she fixed the too loud music on her phone as he came up behind her, shrouded in the clothes to conceal his identity. The knife slid into her back easy as he heard her breath leave her is a gasp. She didn’t understand, didn’t deserve the freedom she had. This was anger, an uncontrolled rage that was becoming an ingrained, a necessary part of his life. She reached for him, but he held her throat, stabbing the knife in again, tugging the blade through skin and bones as it started gushing over the sidewalk._

_He almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but his new instincts, a product of his new life, saved him. He turned. A man this time, older. Clearly not a student, this man he knew. Another unbonded person, or at least he thought, distracted by something. His head turned, sharp eyes widening in horror, but it was too late. The blade slid into his body easily, with the same slick sound._

_But he fought back, swung his arms with a ferocity his other victims hadn’t had. He got in one more stab, into his back, but the man struck him. There was a fire in his eyes. He wasn’t fighting for himself.  He had assumed wrong. Perhaps this man was the same as him. He scrambled away as the man began to lose more blood, stumbling down. He felt compelled to speak, but the man again beat him to it._

_“Why are you doing this?” He sputtered out, blood leaking into the corners of his lips from a cut across his head._

_He stuck out his wrist, his own soulmarks there. The man stared, his eyes widening as he realized why his life had been spared. But he ran, leaving the man to his fate there on the sidewalk, next to the dying girl who would never realize how good her life had been._

 

When Hannibal Lecter woke up, the sharp smell of daylilies met his nose. They were freshly cut, and close to the left side of his head. A few blinks, and he realized there were several bouquets of them in his room, decorated with small cards that were still out of focus as the anesthesia faded from his system.

He also realized he was not alone, though the other person in the room seemed to be sleeping from the deep breaths he could hear. He tried to sit up, realizing that was a poor idea when it pulled harshly at the stiches on his side and he collapsed back to the bed with a huff of exertion. He could, however, begin to see clearer, and though most of the smell of the room was a sharp, antiseptic smell, he could smell the underlying scent of cheap aftershave and even a slight hint of wet dog. He turned his head slowly, mind still foggy, but unable to keep the smile from his face.

His body glowed with the contentment of having Will so close, and even the slight of pain he could feel through the medication was dulled at the feel of having him close. His wrist, rather than burn or itch as it had for so long, heated slightly under the hospital band they had given him and spread a warmth form his fingers to his toes. He laid back on the pillows, feeling both happy and selfish. The part of him that he knew was almost entirely chemical, longed for him to share his newfound bond with Will. To share it while his endorphins were still fresh. For a moment, he wondered if Will had accidentally bonded with him while he had been unconscious. He could remember Will’s face as he was loaded into the ambulance the fear and fresh horror.

But he also remembered strapping on his watch as he always did before a run, and now the bracelet was placed effectively over them. It would have taken an intentional effort for the man to do so, and though Hannibal had not known will long, he knew that was not one the man’s upcoming agenda.

He settled back on his pillow, blinking at the ceiling. “Hannibal.” He heard, and turned again to see will stirring in his chair, using his old green jacket as a makeshift blanket. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” Hannibal answered, surprised at how hoarse his voice was. Opening his mouth, he could feel his need for a drink, one previously ignored. “Though not altogether my usual self.”

“I’ll get some water from the nurses’ station.” Hannibal watched as Will left, his eyes down as usual as he blinked away the remnants of sleep and pushed his glasses back on. It was only a few minutes he was alone, enough to look more closely at the flowers around the room: a bouquet from Margot and Alana, the daylilies from Dean Crawford, one from the psychiatry honor society, another from Dr. Chilton and Franklyn, which Franklyn had written a very long note with, another set from Beverly and lab crew, and another set yet again from his Animal Behavior students. A tear came to the corner of his eye, to know that so many cared for him.

“I got a straw, but you’ll need to sit up a little bit.” Will said, pushing back into the room. It seemed as though he had rehearsed that single line on his way back down the hall. He was nervous, though Hannibal partially could attribute it to the state Hannibal was in now. He came over, carrying a pink plastic cup with a little bendy straw, guiding it down to Hannibal’s lips, where he drank gratefully.

“I appreciate your being here, Will.” Will said nothing, but Hannibal could see the blush creep across his features. “I have to ask though, Will, is something bothering you?”

“You’ve been attacked, Hannibal.” He said with a laugh, “I hardly think my problems merit a discussion.”

“Of course they do,” Hannibal returned, and rather than sit up, pushed himself backwards with his hands until he was propped up fully on the pillow and could talk to Will face to face. “Besides, now we have more in common.”

Will raised an eyebrow in question, and Hannibal gestured to where his wound was under the hospital gown. “We’ve both been stabbed. I recall you informing me of such during our first conversation.”

This time, Will both smiled and laughed, not looking Hannibal in the eye, but as close as could be expected. “Right.” Will said, and sat back down in the standard chairs. Hannibal had never been a fan of hospitals, even when he had worked in one. He had enjoyed the clinical feel, the routine of the work, and the occasional burst of adrenaline when he had worked the ER.  But as a whole, they were utterly devoid of personality: the chairs and beds and tables that were spread through all the rooms were what he could imagine being next to an advertisement for nondescript furniture. Everything was covered in a strange white glow or odd plastic finish too clinical and impersonal, he realized, for both he and Will who had very different tastes. “What all do you remember?”

“I remember finding the girl.” Hannibal said, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. He had seen horrific things in his time as a surgeon, and heard even worse ones in his time as practicing therapist. Domestic violence cases, suicide attempts, children who had been attacked. This girl, while not the most horrific he had seen, had been the first that had truly shocked him. He could remember his stomach lurching at the sight of her, followed by the horror as her attack landed hard on him, knife piercing his side. He could remember slipping the cell phone out of his pocket, fumbling with blood over his fingers, as he dialed 9-1-1 and heaved out the address to the operator. Then the world had started to blur, he had felt blood start to seep into the fabric of his clothing and spread up through his shirt. “I remember your arrival.”

That he had. Through the haze, he had heard Will yell his name, and he could remember seeing the outline of his face. Trying to speak to him. He knew why his attacker had stopped. “Do you remember us talking?” Will asked, his voice barely level, tremoring with something.

“I remember you trying to assist me. Letting me speak.”

“I didn’t know you were bonded,” Will said quietly, and Hannibal felt his heart push to his throat. He wanted to yell, to leap from bed and wrap his arms around Will. But that wasn’t his decision to make.

“Oh.” Hannibal said. And he could realize why that would bother Will. He thought that Hannibal might be bonded with another, that all of this was for naught and he was using him for sex or his own entertainment. None of which was true, and heart Hannibal’s heart to think about Will thinking about those things.

“Did your soulmate die?’ Always straightforward. That wasn’t uncommon, though oftentimes soulmates tended to pass away together.

“No.” Will looked at him, and Hannibal could see the anguish in his features. He decided to bite the bullet, and the next words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. “My soulmate does not know that I am their soulmate.”

Will froze, and as Hannibal watched, pinched the bridge of his nose, unconsciously running his thumb over his wrist. “Oh.” He said simply, slumping back into the chair.

 

 

Will had left the hospital after both Hannibal’s insistence that he go home and sleep properly and the threats of a nurse to inject him with some form of aggressive sleep aid and roll him into another room down the hall. He had left with a heavy weight on his chest, and an itching to get back to work on the case.

Fatigue dragged him downwards. He had been fielding text messages from Beverly all day; she was occupied helping Jack to deal with the fallout on campus. Classes cancelled for the remainder of the week, a five-day weekend that was mandatory for the safety of everyone. Beverly had been a part of the organizers to get those students who needed it to the closest airport and to help those who had no choice but to stay design a system where they would not be traveling alone at night or in early morning when the attacks had happened. She had also, apparently while driving a group of students to the airport, dropped off a box of his favorite take-out Thai food at the front desk, but since he wasn’t a registered patient, he hadn’t gotten it until the nurse had threatened him and Hannibal had said his name. He wasn’t mad about that, cold Thai food was better than no Thai food, and it had been one hell of a day for the registration staff since they were blocking reporters left and right form coming to take pictures.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself when slimy, four hour old noodles sat heavy on his tongue when he wanted anything but to have to get up and fix himself something to drink, staring at the dogs, all who wanted a handout for their patience. Instead, he swallowed, determined to keep them on their strict diet of homemade food, and to eat all the spicy chicken himself.

He was bothered by something else, which had kept him from texting Beverly back as much as he should, especially considering all she had done for him that day. He was thinking of his breakthrough that morning. He had finally established how the killer was choosing them. None of them had soulmates, at first a relief for those trying to deal with the tragedies, but now he realized it was the method of choosing. The killer had to know them, at least on some level, to know that those victims he chose were unbonded. Except for Hannibal, the only would-be victim.

Which was what had led to the heavy weight on his chest, pressing down on his mind as he wondered how to approach it. The attacker, whoever there were, had to have assumed that Hannibal was unbonded. Had to know him well enough to have realized that. And yet, Hannibal was bonded, he had found his soulmate. In order for them to not have known, it would have had to have bene a recent development in Hannibal’s life. Very recent. Perhaps the night before the incident.

Will had torn his watch off of his wrist, and he had realized how likely it was that Hannibal, with his perfect self-control and ability to always make Will comfortable, had said nothing so as not to pressure Will into anything he was uncomfortable with. Will was grateful; after Molly, he was still not ready for a disaster of a relationship that bordered on emotional abuse. He was also, however, a little concerned that perhaps Hannibal did not want to bond with him further. Or that he was completely wrong and Hannibal was bonded to someone else. The thoughts, either of them, filled him with horrific anxiety, past dredges he had thought he had left behind somewhere in adolescence.

“What if it’s him, Winston?” And his newest, most faithful companion cocked his head at him. He remembered Winston’s reaction to Hannibal, leaving Will behind in favor of meeting him on a morning not unlike the one they had had today. He remembered Hannibal’s reaction clearly, reaching down to pet the little dog, scratching his wrist. “It doesn’t matter now, does it, Winston? If I’m not ready.”

By morning, all the papers would announce that unbonded people were at risk. There would be panic, and then a lull, and then more panic once everyone rushed back to campus. There were high odds their killer was in a car or on a plane on the way back to their house. There was more to this killer than what the police had suggested.

They were not mad, looking for their own soulmate and killing those who didn’t follow suit. That was the explanation the police had latched onto, but Will knew that it didn’t fit like it should have. He couldn’t feel the rejection in the killings, it almost felt like resentment. Resentment that their killer was bound, maybe to someone who had died, or who didn’t want them or couldn’t bond back. It was why they had spared Hannibal: they were not angry at Hannibal. Hannibal was bonded, in the same lot that life had given him.

There was something else as well. The scene this morning had showed as such. The killer was working up to something greater. As the violence continued to escalate, and his times around the killings changed from night to more visible, more open times; it was clear to Will (and apparently unclear to trained law enforcement) that this killer was transforming. He was gathering his courage, developing his strength. For what, Will didn’t know.

What he did know, however, is that soon his name would be plastered all over the campus and the area. This killer, whoever they were, would be targeting people without soulmates, those were unbonded and therefore not restrained by what others were both burdened and blessed with. He did not know everything, but Will Graham was certain that those two things would make him a definite target.

Sick to his stomach, he set the Styrofoam box down for the dogs to eat the rest of and went to fix himself a glass of whiskey.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal Lecter stood and fixed his jacket. He had an agenda for the evening, and this jacket would be the proverbial icing on his cake. He smiled to himself at the thought of a more elaborate metaphor involving more somewhat inappropriate thoughts about frosting and in other realms of life it could be used and enjoyed in his spare time. He couldn’t help but notice the stiffness with which he still moved, tugging at the scar tissue at his side at back as he looped his arms through the holes. He was back, almost, to his regular range of motion thanks to his resuming of his near-daily swimming regimen. But the skin had healed as skin always healed: slowly and stiffly.

He was grateful to say that he had remained the last victim of the killer that was on the loose. The air of campus had gone from tragedy to terror to mild fear to now the students were attempting to get on with their regular lives. Memorials to all four of the killed were now in a small memorial garden of roses that Hannibal himself had helped design. But it had been nearly a month since the attack on him and the girl he had seen die, and their fears for the time were abated.

In fact, there was almost a positive stir on campus. The nights had turned cold, and it was the night of the annual Halloween festival in this part of town. Part family-oriented festival, there were games and sweet treats and unfortunate teenagers dressed like pumpkins and Power Rangers. The other half was geared more for adults, with beer and old movie booths and old-fashioned rides decorated for the holiday.

He had invited Will, whom he knew could use the break. The investigation, coupled with the weight of the semester was weighing of the man. Hannibal could practically feel the guilt roll off of him every time he could detect one of Hannibal’s slightly stiffened motions when they had lunch each day. Or when they would take walks together in the evening. It was as though Will knew everything, could see the lingering tear of his skin that had subsisted for weeks despite his care not to upset it, even that fact that Hannibal was bonded to him and when he left Hannibal’s home each night with a slightly lingering kiss, it hurt him almost as much as being stabbed had. The original surge of hormones had quelled however, to be spurred when Will bonded with him. But that hadn’t stopped his desire for the man, present before he knew they were bonded, and now he was all the happier for his company.

The knock came at the door, and Hannibal smiled to himself, giving himself one last glance over in the mirror before he turned to open the door to a shy (as always) Will Graham, dressed in a black sport coat with an appallingly orange shirt and a small pumpkin pin on her lapel. Hannibal couldn’t keep the little smile from his face, or keep his eyes widening from surprise. Will met his eyes then looked away, blushing beautifully. “I thought I might try and look festive.” He said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“A perfect occasion for it, Dr. Graham.” He said, shutting the door softly behind him, reaching out to loop an arm through Will’s and direct them to the car, delighting in the warm glow that came between their skin.

 

 

Will watched with almost trepidation as Hannibal stared bold-faced at his cotton candy, colored to look like a giant cloud of candy corn. His lips were pursed, those they always gave that sort of appearance, as he stared at the treat Will had purchased. “You don’t have to eat it.”

“No.” Said Hannibal, looking more intently. “I am simply trying to discern how best to do so.’

“Like this.” Will pulled over a giant piece, watching the fibers string along behind it. Hannibal watched him as he popped it into his mouth, and Will delighted in the incredible sweetness that dissolved on his tongue. “See?” He asked, sticking out his tongue now shaded orange. “It’s easy.”

Hannibal didn’t look so sure, but followed Will’s lead, tearing off a large piece between his fingers. He popped it into his mouth, lips curling a bit as Will laughed at his expression, tearing off more for himself. “Not exactly a taste for the refined palette.” Will slipped his hand down to Hannibal’s free one, pulling him away from the food booth before the man said something to offend the old lady who had just complemented them on how well dressed they were and offered to paint Hannibal’s face with the little pumpkins he had seen many of the parents and children alike sporting.

“No.” Hannibal agreed, and before Will had realized it, the man had wheeled them over to sample the home-brewed pumpkin beers that a local brewery made. Will suspicioned it was to wash out the taste of the cotton candy, but the beer was delicious so he wasn’t complaining.

It was fun, watching Hannibal drink beer from a little plastic cup when he normally preferred refined wine in glass goblets and Will knew it. Still, Hannibal Lecter was always far from predictable, including when he pulled Will over to the Ferris Wheel line after they went through and listened to the town legends at a booth Hannibal seemed to fine particularly compelling.

Will took the chance to look at the other people enjoying the festivals. A large group of men wearing fraternity shirts were at the beer booth, laughing as those this were the ordinary Halloween celebration. Another group of what he recognized as students were getting food and traveling in little bands, taking pictures and laughing in costume. He knew, based on the warning Dean Crawford had given them all, that tonight on campus would be wild, but it was nice to know that there was peace before that.

“Alright, you two are in the next car.” The acne-ridden teenager working the ride stopped it, gesturing to a car that an elderly couple of soulmates, holding hands as they helped each other out of the little pod. Hannibal pulled him along and Will smiled at him, stiffening only slightly when he saw Hannibal roll his shoulders from discomfort as it pulled on his scar tissue.

Will climbed in next to him, enjoying the press of him against his side as he tried not to let memories of Hannibal’s injuries flood back to him. Two days spent in the hospital by Hannibal’s side, resisting the itch to stare at the man’s covered wrist, and instead letting himself drown in empathy instead. Pain, exhaustion, delight at seeing Will, thirst, slight fevered delirium, relief when was sent home. It had been a surprisingly nice change of pace from testifying at the police station when Hannibal was sleeping and the chief of police would call. It had been his brief reprieve to have conversations with Hannibal when he woke up, having collected some of his own books for the man to read. Not books he thought Hannibal would be interested in, old Jules Verne novels, a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories. He had found Hannibal reading them every time he returned, sipping at hot tea they would let him have.

Beverly had taken to calling him those days too, and now kept it up at least a couple of times per week since. After Will’s announcement and the press coverage that the killer was targeting unbonded people, she and Brian had decided to see if their souls were compatible. Evidently they were, as Will and Hannibal had seen them kissing in a not so subtle fashion when they had arrived, spilling popcorn on the ground.

Will felt Hannibal’s arm wrap around him, holding him at the waist. “Halloween is one of my favorite American traditions.” Hannibal said, his accent flavoring his words more heavily as it often did when he talked about home.

“You don’t have Halloween in Lithuania?” Will looked up at the moon, pale yellow in front of them as they rounded the top and the wheel came to halt.

“It is far more religious.” Hannibal said, “All Hallows Eve is a sacred time. It is very different here.” He looked over at Will. “More fun.”

Will looked over at him, smiling in spite of himself. He let the cold breeze roll over them, the scent of pumpkin spice and apple cider as he pulled Hannibal into a kiss.

“A little cliché, Will, kissing at the top of a Ferris wheel.” Hannibal murmured as they started to move again.

“You taste like cotton candy.” Will laughed at the audible sigh Hannibal gave as his lips pressed against him again and again and again until the ride jolted to a halt and he could feel the ground under his feet.

 

 

Hannibal ran his hands down Will’s back, feeling the scar he had talked about from his time in the force under his fingers before he passed it over in his desperation to feel more of Will. It was the first time Will had discarded his own clothes, or in this case, encouraged Hannibal’s removal of them. He had run his hands over Hannibal’s bare chest before, over the man’s back, but this time, Hannibal could feel Will’s pale freckled skin against his own, hot and inviting. His body surged with pure joy at the feeling, at Will’s breathy moans as Hannibal undid his belt, tossing it to floor.

“Hannibal...” Will breathed out, and Hannibal stopped instantly, moving his hands.

“We can slow down.” It would not be the most exciting course of action, or sate the throbbing desire threatening to overtake him. But Hannibal prided himself on being a man of near-infinite patience. He could wait, even with the sweet taste of pumpkin on Will’s lips and the lingering smell of cinnamon and fall trapped in his curls. “This isn’t an obligation, Will.”

But Will hardly seemed to be listening, and instead was tracing his fingers over the thick scar on Hannibal’s abdomen, the tiny circles from the stiches still visible in white dots over the skin. “I don’t want to stop.” Will said finally, so quietly Hannibal thought he misheard him.

“Will.” But then Will’s lips were on him, kissing over his collarbone, down his chest, his hands undoing Hannibal’s belt, pushing the last of the man’s clothes to the floor. Hannibal breathed him in, drowning in the scent of and feel and taste of Will Graham as he moved them back to the bed, collapsing backwards, pressing his soulmate down into the soft sheets of his bed, both ignoring or simply not hearing the soft buzzing of Will’s phone on the floor.

 

 

Will blinked awake, never able to sleep long in an unfamiliar place. Not that he was complaining, this was an excellent way to wake up. He turned over, ignoring the soreness in his body: a welcome soreness, but a soreness still, and took in the still sleeping form lying next to him. Hannibal was delightfully different in sleep, his strong body relaxed and calm, his lips curved upwards in a small smile from some dream or happy thought his subconscious was drumming up. Will had to admit that this was one of the handful of nights he had not had the vivid, horrid dreams that had been plaguing him since the start of his involvement on the case. Each time he had startled awake, Hannibal’s arms, either consciously or unconsciously, had held him close until he drifted back to sleep, and eventually, the waking had stopped. 

Will heard the beeping, what must have woken him up in the first place, coming from his abandoned pants. He tried to climb out of the bed, but thanks to his usual grace, Hannibal blinked awake, trailing fingers over Will’s arm as he stood to get out of bed. He looked back, taking in Hannibal’s somewhat unkempt, but still immaculate appearance. Graying chest hair, the sharp lines of his face, his hair messy from Will’s hands and the pillows. Will blushed, knowing Hannibal’s eyes were on his body as he stood, trailing sleepily over the outline of his back and butt and legs in the dark.

“Is someone calling?” Hannibal asked, his voice still rough with sleep. “the last time someone tried to contact me this early, it was a census taker.” He murmured, laying back on the bed.

Will laughed, grabbing and tugging on his abandoned boxers before he reached for his pants to stop the incessant beeping. Low battery. He opened the screen. Missed calls. A familiar feeling dread came over him, and he looked over at Hannibal, lounging on the bed with his eyes narrowed at him in worry. Hannibal was safe, Hannibal was here with him.

He redialed the number, it was Dean Crawford, who answered it gruffly as if he had both just woken up and not slept at all through the night. “I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“It’s fine, Will.” A moment of silence. “No body this time, just a message from who we think is the killer.”

“A message?”

“For you.” Jack Crawford breathed out a heavy sigh through the phone. “I told the police I would contact you, but they came by your house to make sure you made it home. I told them not to bother you, that it could wait.”

“What message is it?” Will asked, his mind going to a hundred different things. It wasn’t unheard of, or even that unusual for serial killers to leave notes for the police. The Zodiac killer had, often times killers would ornament and decorate a body in a way to taunt police.

“You can see it when you come in. Take your time. There’s no indication that you’re in immediate danger.”

“Okay.” Will said, not knowing what else to say, walking to the nightstand and plugging in the phone as he shut the phone tightly.

“What is it, Will?” But he didn’t say anything, crawling back into the bed, looking at the clock on the table. It was early, too early for thoughts such as these. But he couldn’t keep them at bay by himself. He reached for Hannibal and he was, perhaps for the first time, truly thankful for the first time for the man’s attentiveness and ability to read him so easily.

Soft lips began to trail along his neck, warm hands down his body, peeling his boxers back off of his skin, pressing him gently again back into the bed. He let himself fall fully into Hannibal, the thoughts of the day that was coming for them in full force be kept at bay for just a while longer.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all!   
> Thanks for reading and kudos'ing and reviewing! It's definitely what keeps me going! Lots of stuff happens in this chapter, including some time with some show characters who are finally making a bigger appearance. Thank you all for continuing to read, I'm hoping to have this story rounded out soon!

“There’s evidence left behind, but no DNA hits in the system.”

“You’re starting to sound like a cop.” Will said, looking over at Dean Crawford who was rubbing his temples slowly.

“I’ve become more familiar with all of this than I ever intended to.” He responded, looking over as Dr. Lounds and her squad of journalism students walked onto the scene. “Excuse me.” He said, walking over to keep them at bay. Will didn’t care for Dr. Lounds, she was consistently sticking her nose in everyone’s business, including his own. She had tried relentlessly to get into the hospital when Hannibal had been attacked, and eventually had managed it when Will had gone back to his home to sleep. Pictures of Hannibal, sleeping behind a table full of flowers, had been plastered on the online school newspaper. Her gang of photographers, the handful of journalism majors on campus, had been almost stalking Hannibal and Will ever since, and he wasn’t surprised to see her, though exceedingly unhappy about it just the same.

Jack kept her at bay, however; and he was left with the shuffling cops who were working around him to make sure there was nothing else incriminating. Hannibal stayed behind the crime scene line, his usual impassive look on his face, but he was looking hard at the display in front of them, in what Will could tell was a deep expression of concern.

It was clear why. Behind the partial trashing of the main Campus Center from the previous night’s festivities, there was a horrifying, almost-shrine that had been set up. It was pictures, developed straight from film by the incredible quality of them, pictures of Will himself. Walking across campus. Teaching in his class. His back turned in his office. Putting away lab gear. Standing next to his car. With Winston on the edge of the campus. With Hannibal on the first day of the year, working their table. All black and white, beautifully arranged on the wall, trimmed and cut to form an odd shape, almost like fire. Written across them, painted in deep red that looked like blood but thankful smelled like acrylic paint, was his name, _Will Graham_ in almost clinically straight handwriting. A shape, something you might see on an old game, or a tile. It looked vaguely familiar, like he should know it, and now it was carefully catalogued in the hundreds of pictures they had taken of the scene. And then, there was a message, in large, bold red paint underneath, overlaid over the hundreds of prints of his face

_This is my becoming._

 

 

“It is a Majong tile. The red dragon.” Hannibal sat across from Will at his dining room table, ignoring the insistent sniffing of Winston who nudged at Hannibal’s leg since Will was sure he still smelled of the veal Hannibal had cooked them for dinner in some sort of sweetened sauce. Despite having spent several evenings of the last two months in Will’s home, Hannibal still seemed unsure how to handle the dogs. Will had come back from the restroom one time to find the man with his head cocked in a full staring match with Buster who had seated himself in front of the couch, keeping Hannibal from reaching for his book on the coffee table. Will had stood in the doorway, watching them for a lot longer than he should have before Buster had given an excited pant and moved over to him while Will pretended not to hear Hannibal’s sigh of relief. He had come to accept that Hannibal was probably a cat person.

“Majong?” Will said, tossing back the rest of his whiskey.

“You are looking at the wrong aspect of it,” Hannibal said softly, his mind in thought as he had been the entire day. “The dragon. They have a connection to this dragon, or at least the idea of this dragon.”

Will didn’t say anything, trying to think through everything he knew about the case. The crimes had been becoming increasingly more violent, each victim with more violent wounds, with more blood, with more damage to them. The attack on Hannibal would have been enough to kill most people. He was changing, molding himself into something else. Something he saw as greater, or at least more powerful. He was resentful of something, someone.

“He is the dragon. Or is becoming the dragon.” Will said. “Every murder makes him think he’s stronger, but he also thinks there's something holding him back. To continue with his own metaphor, his wings are clipped.”

Hannibal said nothing for a long moment. Will reached out a hand to cover the other man’s, even that light touch a surprise to himself. Rarely did he initiate contact with others, even Hannibal. “You’ve been quiet.”

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, before looking over at him. “They have obviously been close to you.” He said very quietly. “The pictures, William. I worry for your safety.”

Will nodded, understanding the feeling. The same feeling when it felt like something had been forcibly yanked from his chest when he had found Hannibal, injured and bleeding out on the sidewalk, grasping for help and air. He knew. So, he threaded his fingers through Hannibal’s on the table, thinking of the night they spent together which now felt like it had been weeks or even years before.

“I didn’t spend four years on the force and get nothing out of it.” He said, trying to lighten the mood, getting only a soft smile from Hannibal in return. “Come on.” He tugged on his hand to get him to stand. “Let’s not think about it right now.”

Hannibal blinked at him for another minute before he stood, running the hand that wasn’t bound to Will’s through the curls on his head, pulling him into a kiss.

 

 

“Doctor Lecter.” Hannibal turned at the sound of a familiar but quiet voice.

“Hello, Frances.” He said with a slight smile, looking at the uncomfortable young man in the doorway, standing with another student he hadn’t seen before. A few moments of observation, and he could tell she was blind, her eyes wide and unseeing, her hand clinging to Frances’ arm as she stood next to him. She was smiling though, friendly as if daring him to mention it. “Hello, I don’t think I know your name.”

“I'm Reba McClane. I'm in the speech pathology program.” She said, and turned to Frances. “Come on, D, let’s go in. You came all this way.”

“Is something the matter, Frances?” Hannibal asked, setting down his book. The boy wouldn’t look him in the eyes, instead making sure that Reba was steady despite the fact that she seemed to be doing fine on her own. He didn’t say anything either, and Reba sighed.

“D wanted to make sure you were okay, Dr. Lecter. We saw what happened in the Campus Center last night and know how close you are to Dr. Graham.”  She answered finally, rubbing a hand along Frances’ arm in a gesture of comfort. “And to talk to you about some work this spring.”

“I am doing some on campus research, Frances. We’re doing case studies in child psychology and addiction.” Frances turned a deep red. “I can get you an application. I can also do your recommendation; your lab work with me has been exceptional.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter.” He annunciated slowly. Hannibal wondered if the man had ever been to psychotherapy. Clearly, he had been to speech therapy, but Hannibal thought there might be more there. He hoped he could get the help he needed. Perhaps Reba, this woman who he was looking at with a stringent adoration, would help him get there. “Are you feeling well after your attack?”

“Fully healed.” He said, thinking it odd that he be bringing it up nearly a month later. But he appreciated it. And Frances was shy. Brilliant, but shy. Hannibal’s first week back had been a flood of people asking him questions, checking in on him randomly. It had tapered off, of course, but perhaps Frances had just been afraid of encountering all of them. “And Dr. Graham is quite alright.”

“Good.” Frances said, and then turned to Reba. “We should go.”

“What time is it?”

“It is nearly two,” Hannibal answered for him, handing Frances the application packet which he took carefully between his fingers which were covered in small bandages wrapped around his fingers. Hannibal decided it was best to pretend he hadn't noticed.

“Your photos are due at three, D.” Frances nodded.

“Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.” He said, and Reba smiled in Hannibal’s direction before they turned to leave.

“I can make it myself, D.” She said, but not harshly, a gentle chastisement. Hannibal watched them go, smiling to himself that Frances had found someone as kind as the girl beside him to be his companion. Reba seemed gentle and intelligent and unconcerned with Frances’ disabilities, both real and imagined. He hoped it would last, as so many things for Frances seemed to not work out as they were supposed to.

 

 

“Hey.” Will looked up from his desk, half-expecting to see the Red Dragon, as he had begun calling them in his head, but instead seeing Abigail Hobbs. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Okay.” Will gestured for her to close the door behind her, quickly putting the pictures of the scene from the night before away in one of his folders. “Did you need something?”

“I wanted to see if you were okay, actually.” She sat down in one of his inexpensive chairs, crossing her legs and looking at him. Will raised his eyebrows. He would consider Abigail to be his favorite student, there was no denying, but he hadn’t expected this. “And to help.”

“I’m fine.”

“I figured Hannibal was helping you through it.” She responded instantly.

“Hannibal?” Will was becoming increasingly confused.

“He told me to call him that. We talk a lot.” She said. “And I’m not here to help you mentally, I’ll leave that to him. I’m here to help you with the case.”

“I can handle it, Abigail.” He sputtered over his words. “Thank you, though. I—“

“The police are useless. Dean Crawford is up to his elbows in all of this. Hannibal is up to his elbows in you. You need someone to bounce ideas off of at least.” He stared at her, blinking. The worst part was, she wasn’t wrong. There was Beverly, who had been a saint in all of this, but her adamant worry he would be stabbed any day and left for dead was taking a toll on his sanity. He assumed Abigail cared that he lived, but she seemed far more interested in actually attempting to help him riddle out all of this first. He was surprisingly grateful, but still…

“I don’t think it would be ethical to get a student involved.” He half-laughed because there was technically already a student involved. She raised her eyebrows back at him, knowing she had won, and smirked.

“Let’s get coffee after your Office Hours today. If you can spend a few moments away from Hannibal, that is.” She stood back up, swinging her backpack around her shoulders and going to step out. “I’ll meet you there.” And she left, leaving Will’s office door open, exposing a somewhat surprised looking Hannibal who watched Abigail as she strutted down the hallway, giving him a small wave as she pulled out headphones.

“Should I ask?” The man asked, stepping in in her stead with their lunch in his hands.

“Not much point.” Will sighed, taking off his glasses to run his hands over his face. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

 

 

Abigail ordered for him, insisting that drinking the straight black version of the dark roast the café had might peel the enamel off of his teeth. Instead, she had gotten him something that tasted like a cross between coffee, a raspberry bush, and gasoline. He had refused her offer of ice and only hoped that he would be able to finish the drink and get the taste out of his mouth with some of whatever he and Hannibal were eating for dinner.

“So, he’s a dragon?” She asked, and was taking notes in a journal designed to look like Tom Riddle’s diary. Will was glad he liked Harry Potter, with all of the paraphernalia on campus. He wondered how Hannibal felt since he had admitted to never watching the movies himself.

“He’s becoming one. That’s why his murders are escalating.”

“So, that’s his motive.”

“In a way.” Will paused, thinking how best to sort through this. “He’s building up to something. Someone.”

“Who, though?

“Hey, Abigail!” Will’s response was interrupted by the arrival of another student, an older boy with blonde curly hair, wearing a faded denim jacket that Will recognized was supposed to look that way and probably cost more than Will's recent car repairs. “Dr. Graham!” He extended a hand to him, and Will smiled at him, gesturing to his coffee for an excuse not to take it.

“Did you want something, Nick?” Abigail asked, and a scan of her face showed that her distaste was clear with the boy in front of them.

“I actually came to see if Dr. Graham might let me get his picture for the story we’re running tomorrow.” It was then that Will noticed the camera around the boy’s neck.

“Well, we’re trying to have a conversation here, Nick.”

“Jesus, Abigail, I just want to talk.”

Before it could escalate, Will stepped in. “I’m sorry, I would prefer you didn’t take my picture right now.”

The boy looked ready to argue, but caught between the hard stares of both of them, he turned to leave, muttering something about his grade under his breath. “A friend of yours?” Will said, knowing his face was twisting in distaste as he took another sip of the coffee.

“You don’t have to drink that. And no, Nick Boyle is not my friend. He’s an idiot and one of the school paper cronies.” She said, and Will glanced around her just in time to see the boy snap what he thought was a covert picture of him. “Honestly, I don’t understand how he’s so terrible when Marissa is so nice.”

“Marissa?”

“Younger sister. Physics major, so you probably won’t meet her. She has Hannibal though for her psychology elective.” Will nodded, unable to help the small smile at the thought of Hannibal.

“Are you two soulmates?” She asked, and Will was starting to realize that Abigail Hobbs had very little in the way of a social filter. Which, in a way, was refreshing. It was like the conversation he had with Margot Verger who was straightforward about the fact that her brother should be in prison and was a somewhat violent sadist that Alana was attempting to convince to go to a psychiatric ward. And interesting woman, to say the least. 

“I don’t know.” And he didn’t, choosing to remain ignorant. Abigail shrugged, pulling her notebook back out.

“So, he’s building to something.” She said to get them back on track.

“Someone, I think. The final death to complete his transformation.”

“How is he choosing his victims now, though?”

“They aren’t bonded. He only kills people not bonded to their soulmate because he is bound to his.”

“Why didn’t he kill Hannibal, then?”

“Hannibal is bonded.” Abigail stared at him for a moment, as if trying to figure all of that out. But again, she just gave a shrug for which Will decided he would forever be grateful.

“So, this murder he’s building up to…”

And for Will, it all clicked in that instant. Their killer was bonded to his soulmate. His soulmate was either unwilling or unable to do the same for him. He was living a half-life, a half-connection to this person who wasn’t connected back to him. The killer was a student, that meant their soulmate most likely was as well. They were becoming the Red Dragon, the Great Red Dragon no less, and the rampage wouldn’t stop until the only thing tethering them to their latent humanity was destroyed.

“His soulmate.” Will’s mouth went dry. “With them gone, there is nothing keeping him from his full potential.”

Abigail stared at him, realizing in that same beat what Will did. Not only were there an unknown number of random victims at risk, every unbonded person on campus, but there was one student in very specific danger. A student who likely had no clue what was happening, who were innocent of any crime, and who, with their death, would let loose a monster.


	9. Chapter 9

“Hannibal, what’s wrong?” Will stopped his work on Hannibal’s heavy wool trousers, feeling the change in the man’s movements against him. Slower, not as needy as they been. He was breathing heavy, his own arousal pressing rigidly against his boxers, the rest of his clothes already pushed off by Hannibal.

“I apologize, Will.” He said, and kissed him with a renewed ferocity, trying, quite effectively, to make up for his pause. But now Will stopped him, pressing his hands against his shoulders, holding him back. “I’m sorry.” Hannibal said softly, knowing that his actions had been what stopped them.

“Tell me why you’re worried, I’m right on the cusp of figuring all of this out.” Will implored him, not wanting this to stop, torn between ravishing Hannibal into the bed and finally yanking the heavy watch off of his wrist to drink in the marks that defined his own soul.

“You are not safe.” He answered, and wrapped his arms around Will in an unexpected, and heavy embrace. His face pressed into Will’s neck, not with the sensual weathering of his lips as usual, but with a soft sigh, an almost shaking breath. “I do not want to lose you.”

“Sounds like a selfish reason.” Will tried to tease him, to lighten the mood as his arousal faded and he was overwhelmed with something almost akin to grief, flowing from Hannibal like water.

“Then call me selfish.” Hannibal countered, keeping his voice soft, holding will close as if his arms were in fact the only safe place to be. Will ran his hands over the man’s back, pressing down lightly, trying to massage the tension away. “You are a target, and I have learned that a target is never a good place or thing to be.”

“Did you find yourself on the wrong side of a medical journal, Dr. Lecter?” Hannibal pulled back with a small laugh he couldn’t help, and Will felt physically relieved. He ran his hand up, cupping Hannibal’s jaw, thumb running a path over his sharp cheekbones. The man’s dark eyes were light with something troubling, an odd feeling. Guilt and grief and anger and sadness and fear all possessed in a face now lightened only slightly by humor. “What happened, Hannibal?” He pressed his forehead to him. “You can tell me.”

“I know.” And Hannibal pulled them down into the thick blankets, lying on his back with Will pulled to his chest, locked eyes with him. Will felt a hand run through his hair, Hannibal fascinated as always by the thick curls there. “Are you sure you want to know?” Will looked at him. “I don’t know that I am at my best level of control tonight.” And Will wanted to choke and laugh and sob all at once. Here was Hannibal, obviously in pain, making sure that whatever he would tell him wouldn’t overwhelm Will emotionally. Making him feel important. Making him feel loved.

“I want you to tell me. Share a part of yourself.” Hannibal nodded, but said nothing for a long moment. Will, tired of waiting, leaned down into him, pressing a kiss to his lips: chaste enough to not be a distraction, heavy enough to hint at later activities.

“When I was a child,” Hannibal began, and Will almost had to lean closer to hear him properly. “I was the heir to a Lordship in Lithuania. But I was not an only child, and it was not an easy time for my family.”

“My love, my very first love, was my baby sister Mischa.” Will watched as Hannibal’s eyes watered. “She was a beautiful child, of course, with golden hair and dark eyes. But she was so much more than beautiful.” He gave Will a pointed look as if to say, _like you are_.  “She was brilliant: intelligent, compassionate, and my favorite tea party partner.” Will felt the inside of his wrist itch softly, and he knew that if he looked at the spot there, he would find the outline of the little black and gold tea set he himself had memorized before his years of giving up on trivial things like trying to find his soulmate.

“As she grew, I did as well, and she became my charge. I took her wherever I went, and mother often tried to separate us to no avail.”  Hannibal paused, lacing his fingers with Will’s, though his eyes were somewhere else entirely, lost in memories. “There were only a few occasions that I was without her, or the rest of my family for that matter. We were all very close, an easy thing to be when all of your neighbors and schoolmates live miles away and the land was covered by snow for nearly six months of the year.”

“I remember right after Mischa turned five, I was eleven and begged my parents to leave me home by myself for the first time. They took Mischa to go look at one of the girl’s schools nearby. I was happy to be alone, I suppose, at that age, I was beginning to feel as though I shouldn’t be so engrossed with my family and found myself more interested in the company of older people and those who enjoyed my same intellectual pursuits. I loved her still, she was my Mischa, but I remember starting that day feeling as though I were invincible.”

Hannibal gave a soft smile, tears flowing freely from his eyes in contrast to it, the wetness carving strange paths down his skin. Will shuddered, already feeling the dread that would accompany this story.

“I expected them back late, they had told me they would be back late. But as it became dark and the the day passed into the next morning, my home lost its appeal alone. I waited and waited and waited on them to return that night.” He full stopped, and Will pressed a kiss to his fingers, feeling tears begin to form at the edge of his own eyes.

“I slept on my parent’s bed, with my sister’s blanket, knowing that they had simply been lost in the snow or in the dark. I waited the next day as well, as the blizzard grew worse, until finally, I could hear someone’s arrival.”

“It was not my parents. It was a man whose name I have forgotten in all the years since. Not a very kind many, but sad just the same. He was tall and dark-haired and looked at me like I was a lost animal when he told me about the incident that killed all of them. My father, thrown from the car; my mother, who died almost instantly. But my sister…”

He stopped, and breathed hard, trying to hold in a heavy sob will could see was dying to press out.

“Mischa survived the crash. If someone had been there, someone who could help her, anyone at all to stop the bleeding, to carry her to help, she might have lived.” Hannibal’s eyes closed, and Will could feel the terrible guilt inside of his stomach. “Instead she died, alone in the snow. Because I wasn’t there to protect her.”

A long moment of silence passed and Will closed his own eyes, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s chest. “I’ll die before that happens to you, Will.” Arms came around him again, wet tears being pressed into his hair. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

“What happened after that, Hannibal?” Will asked, though his heart nearly begged him not to. He needed to know. “That isn’t the whole story.”

“The man took me to the orphanage nearby while they settled my estate. I stayed there for nearly two years before my uncle was allowed to collect me. By then I was thirteen and resentful; the other children and I had little in common except for the death of our families. It was a terrible place, one I chose not to think about often.” He paused, and Will waited. There was something else. Something larger. “I would learn from him that it was not an accident. My parents had been targets of a group of people who had long quarreled with my father’s family over land and inheritance. They thought I was in the car as well, too young to be left on my own, and that we would all be killed in one fell swoop and the property would be theirs to seize.” A small smile came to his features, humorless, but still there. “I suppose it was my own maturity that saved me from a similar fate.”

“Hannibal…” Will breathed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t….”

“I don’t want or need pity, Will.” Hannibal said, and suddenly Will found himself pulled back to look square into Hannibal’s eyes, now alight with some strange, protective fire. “I need you. Safe and alive.”

“I will be careful.” Hannibal continued to stare at him, as if that weren’t enough.

“Please,” The man closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Will’s. “I cannot bear the thought of life without you in it any longer.”

 

 

“I have a list of all the students and professors who are registered as having a soulmate.” A huge packet of paper fell on Will’s desk, rattling the picture of himself and Hannibal that Beverly had printed and framed for him in an effort to show how glad she was that he was still alive. She and Brian were moving forward hapilly, not towards marriage yet, but together at least. Will loved the picture, with Hannibal in his plaid coat and blue shirt, his hair more up than over, smiling at Will as though he were the sun or moon in a moment that Beverly had captured perfectly. His ears got red thinking about such things, glad that Abigail couldn’t read thoughts. “So, here’s our list of safe people.”

Will opened the folder, the list of names  sorted into pairs, older partner first. It was rare that one had only the name of a professor or student with their soulmate being marked as a non-campus resident. Will wondered how the science all played out, the percentage of soulmates that went into similar careers. Judging by this, it was an overwhelming majority, though he would consider some of these people: Dr. Chilton and Professor Froideveaux for example, as being very different people simply within the same field.

“So, at least we know who is safe.”

“Hannibal isn’t in here.” Will noted, scanning the names for his partner’s, knowing it would stand out.

“He isn’t registered then, it’s only after both mates have bonded that they register them.” Will nodded, knowing that Abigail had gone to a lot of trouble to get the list, and that it would save them a great deal of time knowing who not to investigate. “It also means out killer won’t be registered. I also ran them through a computer program so we could have a digital copy, but I know that you seem to avoid technology whenever you can, so I thought you might like the paper.”

“Seems like a good use of print money.”

“Hannibal let me borrow his. He has like 5000 dollars since he does everything on his tablet.” Will did blush fiercely at the mention of Hannibal, wondering how often Abigail truly talked to the man. They seemed to be quite close, though Hannibal mentioned her only in passing. He wondered how much Hannibal had told her about him, realizing it might be none of his business and he trusted the man not to say anything to revealing. Like about the night before when Will had done his best to cure Hannibal’s mood with his mouth and fingers and it seemed to have done the trick quite. The fact that the man had so much print money was no surprise, and Will frowned at his own outstanding balance of $16.42 and decided he had better ask him for some if he planned on printing his finals.

“He would.’” Will muttered. He scanned the documents. “How did you get these exactly? Don’t you need some kind of legal permission?”

“Professor Lounds.” Abigail said, picking out a piece of dirt from under her nails and flicking it away. Will let out a small huff of unsurprised disapproval.  But he couldn’t argue that the information was useful.

“Hopefully we’ll have Thanksgiving break to figure more of this out.” Will let out a breath, happy for the brief reprieve from campus. The day itself had been draining, and Abigail was his last meeting before he was officially on break since lab was cancelled for the next day. As pressure from the case and pressure from classes and his relationship with Hannibal became inexplicably more complicated, Will had accepted that the end of the semester would be a dead run. He needed the respite that the break would bring, though he would undoubtedly be spending it alone, eating shitty turkey and drinking whiskey while the Detroit Lions continued their inevitable losing streak. He had wanted to invite Hannibal, but was afraid that would be too forward, and in the end, fear had won out. Those were not problems he could discuss with Abigail. “Thank you for getting this list together. I’ll look at it more closely.”

“Have a good break, Dr. Graham.” She said with a little smile, and stepped out of his office, knowing that was the end of their brief conversation. He followed not long after, packing up everything he would need for break, including the list, before shuffling out. The hall was dark, professors having cancelled office hours and left early in an effort to put all of this behind them. He was glad, tired of sympathetic glances.

“I know, D, I’m sorry.” He stopped, hearing a soft voice from the end of the hall. “I know you don’t want to go home.” It was a girl’s voice, unfamiliar to him. He stopped, not wanting to intrude on what was obviously a very private conversation. “I’ll call you every day.”

“I know.” A gruff response, measured and carefully articulated. The same student from the beginning of the year, the boy who had been in lab. Frances. “I will miss you.” Again with the careful speech. Will waited, hand on his door debating going back in to give them time to speak, but the words between them stopped. So, instead, he made a show of closing his door loudly, hearing them still completely on the other side of the corner.

He stepped around. “Hello.” He said, trying to act as though he had heard nothing.

“Dr. Graham.” Frances answered. The girl next to him was facing forward where Will was, but her blank eyes unseeing of the world around her. “This is Doctor Will Graham.”

“Hello.” She said and extended a hand that he could shake. “I’m Reba McClane. I’ve heard where you’re working on the murder cases.” Will smiled at her, not having to meet her eyes, somewhat ashamed of what a relief that was. He could tell Frances wasn’t particularly happy with his presence, and he was clinging to Reba’s arm heavily, as if he needed her support to stand it.

“Yeah,” He said, not quite knowing what to say. “Hopefully we’ll have all of this done before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Do you have any leads?” Will listened to Frances stammer out his words, staring at him with dark eyes. “I know you’ve been working with Doctor Lecter. He’s very intelligent.”

Reba circled the back of his hand with her thumb, brushing the skin softly in encouragement. “Yes, well,” Will stuttered out his own words now. “He’s been quite helpful.”

“Is he your soulmate, Dr. Graham?”

“D!” Reba said, as if surprised at the question. It wasn’t necessarily rude, and it was rarely wrong. If two people spent a lot of time together, they were typically soulmates. Still, given the fact that Will had never spoken to him, it was a bit odd of him to ask.

“I don’t know.” Will answered truthfully.

“Doctor Lecter is bonded.” Frances responded, and Reba turned unseeing eyes to him as she seemed just as confused as Will. “I assumed it was to you.”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Will answered again, turning to leave, very uncomfortable with all of this. “I hope you both have a good break.”

“Thank you, Dr. Graham.” But Reba’s focus was now on Frances, and Will was almost glad the young man said nothing as he turned away.

He turned to leave, remembering he hadn’t checked his mail. There was usually nothing for him, and today looked to be no different. Until he stuck his hand in, dragging it along the bottom. There, invisible to the light, was a postcard sized item that Will pulled out, scripted in beautifully ornate lettering.

He smiled, pressing it into the breast pocket of his suit, happy in the knowledge that Hannibal Lecter had formally invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.

 

 

“You’ve been pouring over that list more than you’ve been pouring over the turkey.” Hannibal smiled down at the list of names that he was weaving through with precision, matching each name to the faces of students and former students and faculty and even townspeople that he knew. All familiar, all easily categorized into safe and accounted for compartments. But there were so many others.

He didn’t say anything, however, and felt Will’s arms come around him after a moment of hesitation. “I’ve never liked turkey.” That did get Hannibal to stand up, leaning back slightly into Will, who absorbed the extra weight with ease.

“You should have said something, Will.” He clasped his hands over Will’s on his stomach. “I could have cooked something else.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a Thanksgiving without a turkey.” Will protested, and Hannibal had to disagree. He wasn’t a fan of turkey much either, it was incredibly difficult and time consuming to cook: it needed basted every hour on the hour and the moisture was nearly impossible to relegate. However, he thought his own glaze and a personal touch of slow roasted figs was sure to guarantee a good dinner. And Will had never been picky. “Can we not look at the list right now?”

“It is the best source of information we have towards finding this killer.”

“And there is a football game we could be wasting our lives watching instead.” He pulled back from Hannibal, who turned around to wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him close. There was a warmth he was coming to associate with being this close to Will, whether moving against him, tangled in bedsheets, or simply holding him closely like this. His body rewarded him with chemical gratification at having his soulmate so close, but there was another part of him, not before touched, that burned with an almost soft light at the feeling of their being together, being close. He smiled, though he could see the subtle changes in Will’s face as the reality of the darkness they were living surrounded by had settled into his features.

“I have another round of basting to do first, then I shall join you.” He said, and leaned down to press what was supposed to be a chaste kiss against Will’s lips. Instead the man pushed back, hard, backing him into the table moving himself between Hannibal’s legs. He pulled back almost as suddenly, in his hands the list and on his face a triumphant grin.

“I don’t want to look at this.” He reached a hand up and pushed his glasses back on his nose, Hannibal’s wrist itching happily. “I don’t want to think about it. I wasn’t to enjoy our first Thanksgiving.”

“First?” Hannibal asked, unable to keep himself from beaming. Will’s face reddened as he stepped out to go to the living room.

Hannibal let him go, taking the turkey from the oven in a practiced motion. He smiled to himself again as he heard Will yell from the living room, inquiring as to where Hannibal’s television might be. He ignored him, hoping that he might come back to the kitchen if only so he could ignite that small flame again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! So this one is structured a little bit different, but I hope its still solid! 
> 
> Thank you all for still reading, please R and R, let me know what you think :)

Will wasn’t sure who was more stressed: himself, now pulling incredible hours with Jack Crawford to try and resolve this mystery before the semester break; his students, who were grappling with Hell Week and pending finals and a serial killer that continued to remain anonymous; or Hannibal, who, since Thanksgiving, had become increasingly tense when he spoke to Will. They continued to eat lunch each day, but Hannibal spoke less and less frequently and the nights he did spend with Will, he murmured in his sleep and clung tight to him, as if afraid to let go. Will, then, was left to carry the bulk of their conversation, which he had never been good at and doubted he ever would be. They talked a lot about fish and boats and the dogs and books and, despite Will’s best efforts, the case.

The Red Dragon had moved to the forefront of his mind, despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. His nightmares, tempered by Hannibal’s frequent presence, were filled with the images he could not keep to himself. Dragons and death and gallons of blood that flooded through his mind like surging waters. Hannibal, injured or dead; Abigail Hobbs, the next victim of the dragon, faceless students, nameless faculty, all dead; and in the background, there was only the dragon. And as Will would watch, and it would scream and roar into the backdrop of terrible illusions, he could feel himself transform into it. His arms hardening and elongating into scaled claws, wings sprouting from his back, unfamiliar bloodlust pulsing through him. And then the Dragon’s kills were his. And only a single, nameless victim would be waiting for him. He was magnificent, and as his teeth would sink into their throat and their life would pulse into his mouth; after this, he would be unstoppable.

It was not a pleasant way to wake, that was for certain. And then to go to class, and speak only of forensics and crime scenes and death and agony while he knew all they wanted was for him to talk about the case, was almost worse. Will has started to the clinging to the coffee that Hannibal pressed for them each morning, needing it to get through the day. He had spoken with Dean Crawford, and those who were paired off on Abigail’s list were assumed safe. The rest of the campus had been placed on virtual lockdown: no one, not even those bonded, were to travel alone after 7 p.m., and for those unbonded, there were always escorts from campus security. There were mixers, which couldn’t officially be sponsored by the school, to help people find their soulmates and therefore make themselves safe. Will strongly disapproved of those, but he didn’t think much had come from them anyway, which was a relief.

And then, there as the constant knowledge that everyone was watching him. With expectation. With some strange sort of hope. Even Frederick Chilton, who Will was surprised could get his head out of his own ass long enough to look at him, seemed to think he was their best chance for success. Will himself was not so sure.

He stood now in the art building. The same one he had parked behind before his and Hannibal’s first date. The sight of the first crime scene. Where all of this had started. Only now, he was facing the front, where the bleak cold of December and fear had kept so many from coming to view the gallery being presented by the photography, studio art, and journalism students at the end of the semester. He sucked in a breath and stepped inside, letting the smell of oil paint and wood coming from the walls.

Art had always been tricky; there were so many feelings encapsulated in pieces. Like the painting he was looking at now, which seemed almost to drip emotions in the soft curves that the student had painted, and in the sharp lines that defined solemn faces or almost-angry smiles. It was nearly enough to overwhelm him, and for a moment, he thought it might. But he made himself keep moving, let himself feel as much as he could, freely where the only other people were Dean Crawford and Dr. Crawford who held hands in front of a far wall, speaking softly and not having seen him. Soulmates, yes, but also in love.

The pieces of modern art gave him some relief. He wondered what Hannibal might say about all of the pieces. Will knew for a fact he was the type to define the meaning behind art, to appreciate the careful subtleties and intricacies that lay within the paintings and pieces and photographs that Will had never been able to see beyond enough to notice them. He was sure Hannibal would have something to say, and a stab of longing for the man went through him.

Will tugged back his sleeve, looking at the marks on his wrist that remained unchanged since he was born. Why was he waiting to see if there was one that matched Hannibal’s? There was always that little trigger of doubt that hit him, when he could feel himself deriving comfort from Hannibal’s presence, or soaking in the feeling of having him close by. When he could see the worry tighten the man’s features as he looked at him, or soften when he looked at Will in small moments of happiness. He knew, but still wasn’t sure if he accepted, that Hannibal was bonded to him. So, why his own hesitation?

His eyes passed over more pieces, working his way around to the photography section. His thoughts buzzing, his eyes glossed over everything. He closed them, thinking of how complex everything was becoming. Then a prickle along his spine: something was amiss.

His eyes blinked open again, over a collage of photographs, all black and white. He stared, mind whirring, the Dragon rearing its ugly head again.

And his blood ran cold.

 

“Who gave you these photographs for the gallery?” Dean Crawford’s voice was about three gauges above its normal level, though still surprisingly monotone.  Dr. Lounds sat with her legs crossed, giving her usual placating, but lying smile to his questions.

“It’s an anonymous donation, Dean Crawford. I don’t know who submitted them.”

“There’s no security here? No way to track this person down?” Jack Crawford sounded ready to explode, and Will was afraid Dr. Lounds would be caught in the crossfire, though she seemed unperturbed. He had decided she was his least favorite member of the faculty. She was irritating, nosy, and overbearing: all things that overwhelmed Will. Even now, her fake smile and seeming not to care at all about the dead students or rest of the campus community was getting under his nerves. He was twitchy, steadied only by Hannibal’s hand gripping his shoulder.

“Is there a reason these are so important? They seem like regular photos to me.”

“These were taken by the killer!” Will cold no longer contain himself, feeling his anger bubbling up. “Don’t you care about student safety? You are at risk!”

“I accept the risk that comes with journalism, Dr. Graham.” She said flatly.

“You teach at a college!” Will ran his hands over his face, shrugging Hannibal off. “This is getting us nowhere,” He turned to Dean Crawford, who leaned back in his chair. “We need to start combing through photographs. All the pictures taken by current students.”

“Dr. Lounds?”

“I can have them ready in the morning for you, Dr. Graham.” She said pointedly, as if only trying to piss him off more. He wanted to howl at her, but settled for staring at her hard. “Is something wrong, Dr. graham?”

“You are obstructing justice.”

“You’re no longer a police officer.” She responded happily. “And the integrity of my students is incredibly important to me.”

“I bet it is.” He responded, feeling Hannibal stiffen in response.

“Meaning what?”

“Well, clearly their lives aren’t important to you, so something must be.” He said under his breath.

“Will…” He heard Hannibal breathe, and he knew he had crossed several lines. But she wasn’t helping. At all. And he was tired of everyone not helping. He sighed, ignroning Dean Crawford’s call for him to come back as he stepped out of the building.

“I will speak with him.” He heard Hannibal say calmly.

“Thank you, Dr. Lounds.” He heard Jack Crawford add before he made it out the door into the swirling snow of early December.

 

“You are trying to distract me.” Hannibal Lecter would consider Will’s method to be highly effective. He had never thought of the kitchen as the premiere location for sex, but leaning back on the counter with Will on his knees in front of him certainly had its appeal. He was, however, still worried. And at this rate, the chicken in the oven would overheat. Still, it was difficult to stop.

“No.” Will disagreed. “I am distracting you.” And there was that tell-tale smirk that came across his fingers at the pinnacle of his attractiveness. Damn the chicken, at least for a few minutes.

“Being rude to Dr. Lounds will not help you find this killer, Will.” Hannibal said, his hand twisted in Will’s hair. Will didn’t answer, his mouth otherwise occupied, so Hannibal kept talking through unhampered moans that would leave his throat. “Dean Crawford did not appreciate your display either.”

His thoughts came apart for a few minutes after that, those words the last that hung in the air between them until, chest heaving as he sucked in air, Hannibal allowed Will to extract the chicken from the oven by himself. He readjusted his clothes, tossing the apron into the laundry since it now definitely needed washed, and pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the cabinet. “You are so close to catching him, Will. I only hope that you do not get too close.”

“Are you afraid of me, Hannibal?” Will asked, in his eyes a clear challenge. "That I'll turn into him if I keep this up?"

“No.” He responded, keeping his voice even, “I am afraid for you.” But dinner passed in peace, with no more talk of rudeness or dragons, only of returned favors another night spent in each others arms.

 

Another late day. Hours he had spent looking through photographs to no avail. The dragon, despite becoming their greatest form, was not making themselves seen. By the time he did, Will knew it would be too late, and there would be at least one more life lost to his wrath. But the pictures, though Dr. Lounds had come through on her promise, held nothing for him. It seemed as though the Dragon had only ever submitted photographs for this gallery. Will wondered if that was to taunt him with another false lead.

He locked up his office, realizing by the gnawing in his stomach that he had forgotten to go tot lunch with Hannibal. Since the man hadn’t called, he must have known that Will was too busy to answer. Hannibal himself was busy, they had talked that morning about everything that needed done to get ready for finals now that classes were over for a few reading days beforehand. He locked his office quickly, knowing he was certainly the last to leave the building.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Nothing from Hannibal, but dozens of missed calls from Jack, Beverly, Alana. He groaned, realizing he had left the ringer off. It was best to start with Jack, he could at least tell him he had no leads.

“Jack?”

“Will!” The man was shouting. “Where the hell have you been? We thought he had you, too!” He was breathing heavy, relief and fear in his voice. “where the hell are you? We’re sending security to pick you up. Stay indoors, near windows.”

“I’m at my office, Jack, what the hell is going on?” Will was trying to piece things together, but nothing added up. The phone hung up, and he sent a text to Beverly, then Alana, asking what they knew to no response. Not minutes later, the campus security force, accompanied by a real cop, pulled up onto the sidewalk in a golf cart.

“Dr. Graham?” he nodded. “Get in please, you'll need to see this.”

 

Hannibal blinked open his eyes, wondering what he was seeing exactly. It was clear that he had been drugged. Possibly in his lunch, or his drink that he had mournfully left unattended in lab for a few minutes. He tried to lift his arms, but in addition to feeling like sacks of sand, restraints held his wrist to the chair he was in. The same with his legs and his waist, the biting of the thick leather straps becoming more apparent as his vision cleared. His mouth tasted like dirt and stale beer, probably the two things that had occupied the space the bandana in his mouth had occupied before it became a gag.

He blinked, looking for a person and seeing only a camera. The world became steadily clearer to him, and as he looked around, he noticed the hundreds of pictures on the wall, plastered like wallpaper. Pictures of Will, copies of the same that had been displayed in the Campus Center, pictures of the dead men and women in the terrible stages of death, pictures of unbonded members of the staff and student body. Pictures of himself: in his suits, in his jogging clothes, at faculty meetings.

It was then he knew he was in the lair of the Great Red Dragon, that this was no coincidence or accident. He looked into the camera and computer hookup that was aimed at him, using him as bait. He swallowed dryly, no liquid making it past the bandana. “Dr. Lecter.” A familiar voice came from behind the camera, through a door, and his blood ran cold. He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to face the truth. When he reopened them, he steeled his resolve, adrenaline surging through him, fighting against his restraints.


End file.
